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WILLIAM PEMBROKE MULCHINOCK. 



''All are arcliitects of Fate, 

"Working in these walls of Time ; 

Some with massive deeds and great, 

Some with ornaments of rhyme." 



The Builders.— Longfellow. 



NEW YORK: 
PUBLISHED BY T. W. STRONG, No. 98 Nassau Street. 

BOSTON :— G. W. COTTRELL & CO., 64 CORNHILL. 






Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1851, 

By T. W. STRONG-, 

In the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the United States, 

for the Southern District of New York. 



Stereotyped by Vincent Dill, Jr., 
Nos. 21 & 23 Ann Street, N. T. 



PREFACE. 



Many of the pieces, which make up this collection, 
have already appeared, in Magazines and Journals. The 
public received them, on their first appearance, with much 
kindness, and I fondly hope they may not be found un- 
worthy of continued esteem, on farther acquaintance. 

A few subscribers, chiefly selected from literary men, 
whose Correspondence suggested and encouraged this pub- 
lication, are all that appear, as its Patrons. Had my 
circumstances permitted me to leave New York, I might 
have added many from other cities, though 1 could hardly 
have found names of equal celebrity, to those already here. 

Originally, I proposed to publish this volume, at my own 
cost, but though it now appears under the imprint of a 
regular publisher, my interest in its success, is nothing 
diminished. 

If I might offer a word of apology to the American 
Public, for adding one more to the countless volumes of 
rhymed matter, which, during the last decade, have 
flooded all Bookshops, it would be that, these ballads, 
songs, and snatches of song, are drops of my own hearts 



IV PREFACE. 

blood, and beats of my own quick pulse. In the streets 
and in solitude, in happy hours and dark clays, song has 
been my natural vehicle of thought. I have not been an 
Amateur of sensibility, cultivating it, as a Fine Art, but, I 
have felt and experienced, nearly every line I have 
written. From the stimulus of elegant society, from 
delightful leisure, or many path'd cultivation, I have not 
obtained subjects or a style. A few, good, common books, 
and the great Works of God, beside the lessons of daily 
life, have been my sole Teachers. With these aids, if I 
cannot hope to match men to whom many languages are 
as familiar as their own, whose mornings, nights and libra- 
ries, are in the perpetual presence of the Arts, men whose 
fame is not only American but almost Universal, I, at least, 
may claim an audience on the merits of my dear mistress, 
Nature, whose beauty, like that of the Gospel, though 
" ever ancient" is also " ever new." 

With the hope that this Family party of stray kindred, 
may not forfeit in their collective shape, the good will ex- 
pressed by the Public, towards many of them, individually, 

I remain 
the Publics humble servt., 

WM. PEMBROKE MULCHINOCK. 



CONTENTS 



Paul. Flemming and Mary Ashburton, 

Music Everywhere, 

Alice of Ballinasloe, 

" Lorn and Sad." 

My Task, 

Should the Harp of thy Soul, 

Alice of the Yv'e st, 

The Hunter's Song, 

Chants for Toilers, . 

JSTo. 1. — Words of Cheer. 

No. 2.— The Worker's World. 

JVo. 3. — Conclusion. 
My Alice, .... 

What I Said to My Soul, 
A Lament on a Brother Deceased, 
*' ; Albeit," .... 

A Vision of the Sea, . 
" Progress," .... 
To Ralph Waldo Emerson, . 
Henry Clay, .... 
To My Mother, 



Page 
11 
21 
25 
28 
32 
34 
35 
38 
40 



75 

78 
80 
82 
85 
88 
91 
93 
96 



VI 



CONTENTS. 



Still Struggle On, . . 

Literature and Art, 
The Dying Girl, . 

I. — The Complaint. 

II. — The Warning. 

III. — Clwistmas Eve. 

IV. — Christmas Day. 
Ellen the Fair, . 

" Things ain't now as they used to was, 
Now and Then, 
Away, Far Away, 
The Feast of the Poets, 
Ballad of the Dying Child, 
Workers and Toilers, 
To My Little Daughter Alice, 
Words of Cheer for Men of Genius 
Phantoms, 
Siren, Sing, 
Home, 
Song, 
My Child, 
Aileek Aroon, 
" Minnie," 
Winter, . x 
Summer, 

Go, False One, I'll never Upbraid Thee 
The Golden Ring, 
Those Eyes so Brightly Glancing, 
Come let our Hearts, &c, . 
The Bright Dream is Over, 
Sojng of the Ejected Tenant. 



Page 
102 

107 
110 



119 
128 
131 
134 
138 
157 
161 
1G3 
166 
168 
170 
172 
175 
177 
181 
184 
187 
190 
193 
194 
195 
196 
198 
200 



CONTENTS. 



Vli 



Love's Replies, 

Let Me Be, .... 

Close again to my Side, 

Love's Gtood-Bye, 

Responses, .... 

SONG, ..... 

Means to an End, 

American War Song, — a. d. 1776, . 

" Come Away, 5 ' 

New Year's Chant, — a. d. 1776, . _ 

The Death of Turgesius, 

The Sons of Erin Smile, 

" Take down the Sword of thy Father, 

Fatherland, . . 

A Request, — To Charles Gavan Duffy, 

A Lament for Thomas Dayis, 

"Erin," ..... 

Fraternize, an Irish Exhortation, 

Thomas Davis, .... 

Ballads of the Pale, 

JYb. 1.— Art Mac Murrogh's War-song. 

J\*o. 2. — Life and Death of Art Mac Murrogh. 
A Song for Down-trodden Ireland, 
While the Haughty Red Flag Flieth, . 



Page 
202 

204 

206 

208 

210 

212 

213 

215 

217 

221 

225 

230 

231 

233 

236 

238 

241 

244 

246 

251 



258 
260 



DEDICATED TO 



HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW, 



iligjji €nteu nf Etfttpg €skm raft iUgrafy 



i&ATEFUL SERVANT 5 



THE AUTHOR* 



PAUL FLEMMING AND MARY ASHBUETON. 

DEDICATED TO HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW, 

By the river bright and golden— glassing turrets 

quaint and olden, 
Such as Dreamer's eyes behold in, in the bright and 

blest Ideal, 

In the magic realm of Ehvme— 
Sat a fair and stately maiden, one whose smile could 

make an Aidenn, 
Where the heart love-overladen all entranced in bliss 

would wander, 

In its Youth's delightful prime. 

And beside her, lowly kneeling, in his earnest, fond 

appealing, 
Sat a youth whose fonts of feeling danced and trembled 

to the glances 

Of her dark and lustrous eye ; 



12 PAUL FLEMMING AND MARY ASHBURTON. 

From his spirits' effervescence, came his fond love like 

an essence 
Stealing upward to her presence, like the perfume of 

a censor 

Mounting upward to the sky. 

Sweeter than the Sabbath- chiming of the church bells 

bard-like rhyming, 
When their brazen tongues keep time in a sonorous 

diapason, 

And a soul enthralling tune ; 
Sweeter than the streamlet rushing amid spring flowers 

in their flushing, 
Came the song of love out-gushing from the lips of the 

pale Student, 

In the leafy month of June. 

Up to hers his dark eyes turning, where the glances 

sad yet burning, 
Half in hope and half in mourning, seemed to hail her 

as the day-star 

That illumed his earthly way, — 
Seemed to view her as the fairest, as the brightest and 

the rarest ; 
Mighty Love, how much thou darest ! when your 

infant pinions tremble, 

For the first time, in the ray. 



PAUL FLEMMING AND MARY ASHBURTON. 13 

Yes, on her, the stately lady, who beside him in 
youth's heyday, 

Sat as blooming as a May-day, when the roses and the 
lilies 

Wave and wanton with the breeze, 

The young Student gazed enchanted, but no answering 
smile she granted, 

"While his fond heart heaved and panted, like the rest- 
less, restless surges 

Of the wind-tormented seas. 

Then like music spake he— " Mary, by my love that 

ne'er can vary, 
By mine eyes, so wan and weary — weary watching for 

thy presence, 

Oh ! thou beautifully fair, 
By the Past whose gloom is o'er me— by the Future 

dark before me — 
By the loved dead who implore me, in sweet whispers 

from the grave-yard, 

To lie down and slumber there, 

" I adjure thee, more than woman, in thy beauty 

super-human, 
List the love-tale of a true man, oh ! thou pure and 

wingless angel, 

Oh ! thou fairy-like and bright ! 



14 PAUL FLEMMING AND MARY ASHBURTON. 

Be the star to shine incessant o'er my dark and dismal 

Present, 
Be the fixed and radiant crescent of a heart that now 

is starless 

As a black and moonless night. 

" If from out thy heart no feeling of a love intense 

come stealing. 
All in vain the streams of healing from the i fountain 

of oblivion' 

Through the bosky forest flow ; 
Ah ! the waters glided never could engulf thy name 

for ever, 
They would hourly part and sever, casting up the 

scroll with ' Mary' 

To my heart of care and wo. 

" Let the arrow rankle deeper : if thou wilt, love, bid 

the weeper 
Be the joyless, love-lorn keeper of a marr'd and 

broken casket 

That enclosed a love o'er-bold ; 
Of a love that strain'd at Heaven, till its wing was 

lightning riven, 
By the arrowy scorn given to those eyes, where whoso 

gazes 

Sees a wealth of love untold. 



PAUL FLEMMING AND MARY ASHBURTON. 15 

" 'Tis a spellthat guides me to thee, with idolatry to 

view thee, 
To entreat thee and to woo thee as the lowly Hyer- 

onymus 

Wooed the proud Hermione ; 
When her words of anger braying, he confessed his 

love enslaving, 
Where the linden trees were waving on the verdant 

slopes of Bulach, 

In a flow'r-bespangled lea. 

" Tho' to anger it may move thee, by yon starry sky 

above thee, 
Scorn me as thou wilt, I'll love thee, with a fonder 

adoration, 

With a deeper, wilder love, 
Though my hope to earth be shaken, like a strong ship 

storni-o'ertaken, 
Thy fond name shall, like a beacon, 'mid the perils 

that surround me, 

Prompt my tired foot where to move. 

ii If too high my wild love soareth, think how fondly it 

adore th, 
Think how humbly it imploreth ; see ! I bend before 

thee, Lady, 

Like a serf of low degree ; 



16 PAUL FLEMMING AND MARY ASHBURTON. 

While that heart to my divining, and those eyes so 

brightly shining, 
Seem for richer guerdons pining than this hand can 

ever proffer, 

Oh, my Beautiful, to Thee. 

" For the moments of thy leisure, I will teach my lyre 

to treasure 
Thoughts to fill thy soul with pleasure when thy brow 

assumes the tinting 

Of the cruel wizard, Care, 
Blending with the bright Ideal the sad Actual and 

Real, 
Till its chords shall seem to be all touched and struck 

by viewless fingers 

Of weird spirits in the air. 

" We will tread with footsteps airy on the track of Elf 

and Fairy, 
Hand in hand, love, never weary of our lookings into 

nature's 

Kind and motherly soft face ; — 
By the wild sea, tameless ever, by the mountain and 

the river, 
Singing praises to the Giver for the sublime and th^ 

beauteous 

That in all his works we trace. 



PAUL FLEMMING AND MARY ASHBURTON. 17 

" Amid flow 'rets bright past telling, fragrance-giving, 

sense -compelling, 
I will build a fairy dwelling, such as on the eye of 

Poet, 

In a slumb'rous vision beams, 
Where, while blest with love, unweeting how the outer 

world is fleeting, 
We will dwell with fond hearts beating in a musical 

communion, 

In a world of golden dreams. 

" When the glorious sun is shining, at thy feet, sweet 

one, reclining, 
For thy brow Spring garlands twining, I will sing thee 

artless verses, 

Woven all of homely words ; 
While the bee, the busy hummer, questing out the first 

new comer 
Of the gladsome flowers of summer sings his song of 

toil unceasing 

With the music of the birds. 

" Art thou deaf to my entreating ? — hast thou no kind 

word of greeting, 
Though as short-lived and as fleeting as the flash that 

lights high Heaven, 

When the angry tempests blow ; 



18 PAUL FLEMMING AND MARY ASHBURTON. 

Wo is me ! if my sad plaining, and mine eyes the hot 

tears raining, 
Fail one word of love in gaining, — Life has nothing 

more of sorrow, 

Or of anguish to bestow." 

Did she answer him with smiling — with the touching 
and beguiling — 

"With the winning and the wiling tender ways of beau- 
teous woman, 

When her heart is warm and young ? 

Were her vows of love out-spoken ? — chance or change 
should ne'er see broken, — 

Did her hand give sign or token to ensure the sweet 
betrothal 

That was spoken by the tongue ? 

Ah ! so close did Pride enfold her, that the tale the 

Student told her, 
Made her heart than marble colder — made her lip with 

scorn to quiver 

For the pale and dreaming youth, 
Who with cheeks suffused and flushing with the red 

blood to them rushing, 
Told his tale of love out-gushing, all so sweetly, all so 

sadly — 

Full of earnestness and truth 



PAUL FLEMMING AND MARY ASHBURTON. 19 

Spoke no voice to his replying — heard he but the night 

wind sighing — 
Saw he but his day-dream flying, and the fan- earth 

made a desert, 

Unrefreshed by any spring, 
But no harsh upbraiding made he, to the cold and 

' stately Lady,' 
But in sorrow homeward strayed he, from the wreck of 

his air- castles, 

Like a crown-denuded king. 

From the hour he failed to move her, the fond, dream- 
in o- Student-Lover 

Wandered all alone a rover unto many lands and 
places, 

Seeking Peace he could not find. 

With his young heart disenchanted, since the love for 
which he panted, 

Left him only sorrow-haunted, on Life's stormy sea 
thrown chartless, 

Sport of every wave and wind. 

When with heart oppressed with sorrow, from without 

I tried to borrow 
Some bright hope to deck the morrow, and returned 

without finding, 

To my lonely, lonely room, 



20 PAUL FLEMMING AND MARY ASHBURTON. 

Fancy came as though to cheer me, pointing to Hype- 
rion near me, 

And, in mockery, I fear me, bade me weave from it a 
story, 

To dispel my thoughts of gloom. 

Let my boldness be forgiven, oh, thou gifted one oi 

Heaven ! 
If I erred, by Fancy driven, aught of thine to mar or 

borrow, 

Seeking Heart's Ease for a time ; 
Mine was but the proud incentive, to make some great 

mind attentive, 
Mine was not the power inventive — I was but the 

humble Workman — 

Thou — the Founder of the Rhyme. 



21 



MUSIC EYERYWHEEE. 



There is music in the ocean, 

There is music wild and grand, 
With its surges aye in motion, 

Breaking fiercely on the land : 
Swept by breezes soft and vernal, 

Lashed by tempests bold and free, 
There is melody eternal 

In the deep and mighty sea. 



There is music in the mountains, 

In the immemorial hills, 
From the depths of silver fountains, 

From the beds of sun-bright rills, — 
From the loud-voiced, rain-swelled river 

TVhose wild stream the valley fills, 
Seaward rushing, tameless ever ; 

There is music in the hills, 



22 MUSIC EVERYWHERE. 

III. 

There is music in the thunder, — 

There is musio deep to hear : 
When the dun clouds leap asunder. 

And the lightnings blue appear, 
When the startled sleepers waken 

And the abject sinners kneel, 
When the dome of air is shaken, 

There is music in its peal. 

IV. 

There is music in the forest : 

When the mighty trees are stirred 
By the north wind, foe the sorest 

To the earth fed beast and bird ; 
When the oak its strength is feeling, 

When the pine trees dark and tall 
To and fro are madly reeling, 

There is music in them all. 



There is music in the Summer ; 

There is music in the Spring, 
When the bee, the busy hummer, 

And the lark, up soaring, sing ; 



MUSIC EVERYWHERE. 23 



In the Autumn, robed in glory 
By the fullness of the year ; 

In the Winter, dark and hoary, 
There is music sweet to hear. 



There is music in the pealing 

Of the solemn Sabbath bells, 
O'er the mountain summit stealing, 

Sinking in the rocky dells, 
Bidding old and young to gather 

Where the dove, Religion, dwells, 
'Round the shrines of the Great Father, - 

There is music in the bells. 



VII. 

There is music up in Heaven, 

Where the sun and planets shine, 
Glorious ever, skyward driven, 

By a harmony divine ; 
Angels swell the mighty chorus, 

Seraph voices give reply, 
Filling all the concave o'er us, — 

There is music up on high. 



24 MUSIC EVERYWHERE. 

VIII. 

There is music for the loving 

In the earth, the sea, and air ; 
Wheresoe'er our steps are roving, 

Let us hearken, it is there. 
For the sad and for the grieving, 

Who with patient spirit bear, 
For the lowly but believing, 

There is music everywhere. 



With the rude rock for his pillow, 

With his canopy — the night, 
Dashed by salt spray from the billow, 

Drenched by snow-flakes cold and white, 
Man may find, though tears should glisten 

In his eyes from awe and fear, 
If with faith he bend to listen, 

God's sweet music everywhere. 



25 



ALICE OF BALLINASLOE. 



With footsteps the lightest, with prospects the 
brightest, 

With hope for a future unclouded by care, 
All gladsome and merry " my own home in Kerry" 

I left for a season, and free as the air ; 
And happy as childhood, by valley and wiidwood, 

By mountain and river I jour me d along, 
Where nature looks fairest, through places the rarest, 

That poet e'er painted in soul-touching song. 
And nightly and daily, my time it passed gaily, 

From pleasure to pleasure I'd merrily go ; 
My thoughts all Elysian, 'til flashed on my vision 

The peerless young Alice of Ballinasloe. 

Her eye's brilliant lustre, her hair in a cluster, 
O'ershading a forehead as white as the snow, 

A form like a fairy, so joyous and airy, 

A step just as light as the bound of a roe — 

I gazed on with gladness ; but soon came a sadness, 
The deepest, the direst, my heart ever knew — 



26 ALICE OF BALLINASLOE. 

A grief that could borrow no balm for the morrow, 
No hope, not illusion — no joy that was true ! 

With pining and grieving, in sadness believing 
One thought upon me she would never bestow, 

So far, far above me, oh ! how could she love me, 
The peerless young Alice of Ballinasloe ? 

Whene'er she flits by me, at distance, or nigh me, 

With grief at my heart, bringing tears to my eye 
I watch with devotion her every motion, 

And breathe fervent prayers for her welfare on high ; 
Each fold of her vesture, each word, glance, and 
gesture, 

My memory treasures as misers do gold ; 
? Tis joy to be near her, to see her, and hear her, 

And oh ! 'twere a Heaven, " to have and to hold." 
In dreams she comes to me, to cherish and woo me — 

The slumber is pleasure, the waking is wo, 
When fades the Ideal, when triumphs the Real ; 

I pine for young Alice of Ballinasloe. 

Each hour of the daytime, to others a gay time, 

I loiter away time in sadness and care, 
For darksome night pining, when fair Hope comes 
shining, 

To cheer the declining sad heart that I bear : 



ALICE OF BALLINASLOE. 27 

Resigning to others — my lighter souled brothers — 

The dance and the revel, the music and wine, 
At eve my foot traces, the scenes and the places, 

By Alice made holy and pure as a shrine ; 
Upon the sward kneeling, with raised hands appealing, 

I supplicate Heaven to lighten my wo, 
With sun-bright revealings of love-lighted 'feelings, 

Bestowed by young Alice of Bailinasloe. 

Ah ! had I been bolder, my tongue should have told 
her 

Of sun-cherished Munster, the spot I love best, 
So rich and so rare too, so fresh and so fan* too. 

The favored of Nature, and pride of the West ; 
Of mountains, and vales too, the songs and the tales too 

Of Fairies and Chieftains, of Glory and Love ; 
Like bold, earnest wooer, I should have sung to her, 

Her heart's depth of feeling with Music to move ; 
And now my eyes glisten, to think — would she listen, 

And smile an approval, how calmly should flow, 
Lnclouded for ever, my life like a river, 

Beside the sweet Alice of Bailinasloe. 



28 



"LORN AND SAD." 

GERALD GRIFFIN'S LAMENT IN LONDON. 



[Suggested by the beautiful sketch of that sweet Poet in the " Province 
of Munster," April 29th.] 



" Lorn and Sad." 
Lorn and sad, though the blithe lark singeth 

Heavenward, songs of glee, 
Lorn and sad, though the sweet spring bringeth 

Round me its fragrancy, 
Lorn and sad am I, one thought olingeth 
Morn, noon and night to me — 
That in life's prime I'll die, 

Mo Chuma !* 
Lonely and sad am I. 

ii. 

Lorn and sad, while the gay are keeping 

Ever a holiday, 
Lorn and sad am I, waking or sleeping, 

* God help me. 



29 



Grieving and sad alway, 
Around me the sheeted dead are sweeping- 
List to the words they say — 
" Clay to its kindred clay," 
Yes, in life's prime I'll die, 

Mo Chuma ! 
Lonely and sad am I. 



Lorn and sad, at the thought of leaving 
All that on earth I prize — 

Friends, from whose fond hearts upheaving 
As the sea-waves arise, 

Surge the wild troublous throbs of grieving 
Told by the tear dimned eyes, 
Hark ! what the loved dead say — 
" Clay to its kindred clay," 
Yes, in life's prime I'll die, 

Mo Chuma ! 
Lonely and sad am I. 

IV. 

Lorn and sad, where the lamps are shining, 

Brightly in festal hall, 
Music and love their spells combining 

Featly to fetter all, 
Save one on whose young heart declining 



30 



Sadly the accents fall 
Of stern fate crying alway — 
" Clay to its kindred clay," 
Yes in life's prime I'll die, 

Mo Chuma ! 
Lonely and sad am I. 



Lorn and sad, for each hope I clung to 

Vanished like morning dew, 
Lorn and sad, for each heart I sung to 

Proved in my need untrue, 
Lorn and sad, every stay I hung to 

Withered before my view ; 

List, what the loved dead say — 

" Clay to its kindred clay," 

Yes, in life's prime I'll die, 
Mo Chuma ! 

Lonely and sad am I. 

VI. 

Lorn and sad, full many a warning, 
Bodements of evil nigh,* 

* " In the time of my boyhood I had a strange feeling, 
That I was to die ere the noon of my day, 
Not quietly into the silent grave stealing, 
But torn, like the blasted oak, sudden away." 

See Griffin's Poems. 



" LORN AND SAD." 31 

In the night, in the noon, and morning, 

Striking on ear and eye, 
Despite of my better reason's scorning, 

Pointing to God on high, 

Whisper my heart alway — 

" Clay to its kindred clay," 

Yes, in life's morn I'll die, 
Mo Clmma ! 

Lonely and sad am I. 



32 



MY TASK. 

Ah ! the bewildering 

Task of my life !— 
Toiling for children, 

Toiling for wife — 
Toiling so eagerly, 

Straining my brain, 
Grold coming meagrely 

To ease its pain. 

Children, imploringly 

Looking to me ; 
Wife so adoringly 

Clasping my knee ; 
Dreaming of palaces 

Mind ought to gain ! 
Bitter the chalice is 

I have to drain. 

Their hopes are manifold. 
Their sleep is blest ! 

Would, that in any fold 
I could find rest : 



MY TASK. 33 

Mine be the hitter life, — 
Working up-hill, 

Theirs be the fitter life- 
Hoping on still. 

Let them think hurriedly 

Of Human-kind — ■ 
Their Hopes unburied lie 

Where they may find ; 
Theirs are the never-gone 

Angels of light ! 
Mine are the ever-gone 
• Children of Night. 

Children ! think father can 

E'en raise the dead ! 
While all I gather can 

Scarce give you bread ! 
Dear Wife be cheery still, 

Hopeful, and brave, 
While my heart dreary still 

Heaves to its grave. 

Ah ! the bewildering 

Task of my life — 
Toiling for children, 

Toiling for wife — ■ 



34 SHOULD THE HARP OF THY SOUL. 

Toiling so eagerly, 
Straining my brain, 

Gold corning meagrely 
To ease its pain. 



SHOULD THE HABP OF THY SOUL, &c. 

Should the harp of thy soul feel adversity's finger 

Had touched it too rudely and saddened its tone — 
Should no trace of its wild thrilling melody linger, 

Its master-chord broken, its melody gone ; 
And should it awaken no feeling but sadness, 

And answer in silence its owner's weak call, 
Then — then will I haste to attune it to gladness, 

And bid whispers from Hope o'er its broken strings 
fall 

But Love, when my hand o'er its injured strings stealing, 

Brings back its lost sweetness and wildness again — 
"When lightly it moves, to the world revealing 

How free is its music from sorrow or pain, 
Then say with the heard you will never more wander, 

Lest aught should o'ershadow your newly strung lyre, 
And prove life has nothing would tempt you to squander 

Its touches of Love or its breathings of fire. 



35 



ALICE OF THE WEST, 



On the banks of lordly Shannon ; 

"When the summer, warm and bright. 
Gave a glory to the morning, 

And a stillness to the night ; 
As I wandered like a rover, 

Free from sorrow, free from care, 
Like a vision passed before me, 

Little Alice, young and fair. 
As the shapes that poets dream of 

When the fancy will not rest, 
Bright and lovely, soft and tender, 

With her form of fairy lightness 
Clad in robes of spotless white, 

On the Shannon's banks disporting 
With an innocent delight, 

Looking down upon the river, 
Looking upward to the sky. 



36 ALICE OF THE WEST. 

All around that caught her glances 
Giving pleasure to her eye ; 

While the joy she felt within her 
Well her happy face expressed, 

With a graceful, gliding motion, 
Moved young Alice of the West. 

I have gazed on- many faces 

Where the great held festival, 
Jewelled beauties, proud and haughty, 

Passing through the lighted hall ; 
I have seen them in the city, 

In the large and busy street, 
In all haunts where Fashion's children, 

In the search of pleasure meet ; 
But no face so deep and sweetly 

Moved the heart within my breast, 
As did thine, young Connaught maiden, 

Little Alice of the West- 
Many seasons, swift as lightning, 

Have gone by since first we met, 
But my heart her image treasures 

With a loving feeling yet. 
In my cottage home in Munster, 

With an early furrowed brow, 



ALICE OF THE WEST. 37 

When I think how sad and joyless 

All my days and nights are now- 
Back again my fond heart travels 

In its sorrow and unrest, 
To the banks of lordly Shannon, 

And young Alice of the West 

And again she moves before me, 

And again I hear her speak, 
While the gentle summer zephyr 

Lifts the tresses on her cheek, 
To my view again disclosing 

All the magic and the grace, 
That were ever, ever playing 

In her sweetly winning face ; 
And entranced again I wander, 

Not a care within my breast, 
On the banks of lordly Shannon, 

With young Alice of the West. 

Wo is me ! the joys of fancy, 

Like to spring-flowers fade away ; 
Wo is me ! what most we cherish, 

Glides the fleetest to decay ; 
And in grief I'm doomed to wander 

Over Munster broad and fair. 



38 THE HUNTER S SONG. 

With a footstep weak and feeble. 
And a heart oppressed by care ; 

■Grieving daily, grieving nightly, 
Sinks the heart within my breast, 

When it thinks on Shannon river, 
And young Alice of the West. 



THE HUNTER'S SONG. 



I would I were what I have been, 
A hunter in the forest green, 
Still treading in a happy mood 
The deep untrodden solitude, 
The trees around, the skies above, 
Untouched by care, unknowing Love, 
And all the many wiles that lie 
In ambush in fan woman's eye. 
This heart would now be free as air, 
This hand as true to do and dare ; 
But Love has made himself my guest 
And filled my heart with sad unrest, 



the hunter's song. 39 

And Mary has a winning tongue, 
And Mary's face is fair and young, 
And let or weal or wo betide, 
My place is now by Mary's side, 

And yet if I were free to take 

My way again by wood and lake, 

I know not if this heart could be 

At rest and far away from thee, 

Such joy it is to sit and trace 

Each line, each look of thy soft face— 

The tresses burdening thy cheek — 

The laughing mouth — those eyes that speak 

A potent language of their own, 

Unaided by a single tone ! 

No, no ! I would not tread again 

Those prairies, far from haunts of men. 

I follow now a gentler game, 

31y Mary's love I only claim ; 

The hunter's life is o'er and done ! 

The Lover's life's a sweeter one ; 

I would not be as I have been, 

A hunter in the forest green. 



40 



CHANTS FOR TOILERS 

DEDICATED TO J. G. WHIT TIER. 



No. 1.— WORDS OF CHEER. 



" Venerable to me is the hard hand ; venerable, too, is the rugged face, 
all weather-beaten, besoiled, with its rude intelligence, for it is the face 
of a man, living man-like. * * * Yet toil on, toil on ; thou art in thy 
duty, be out of it who may 5 thou toilest for the altogether indispensable, 
for daily bread." 



"If the poor and humble toil that we have food, must not the high and 
glorious toil for him in return, that he have Light, have Guidance, Free- 
dom, Immortality ? — these two in all their degrees, I honor : all else is 
chaff and dust, which let the wind blow whither it listeth." — Carlyle. 



Lift your head thou Child of Labor, toiling Craftsman 

be of cheer, 
Time is weaving star -bright garlands for thy day of 

crowning near. 

For thy labor stout and man-like, glorious meed shall 
yet be thine, 

When a world shall hail you Noble of an earth sub- 
duing line. 



CHANTS FOR TOILERS, 41 

What were seed without the sower to his mission ever 

true ? 
What were harvests, if the reaper left theni standing as 

they grew ? 

What were cities, if the builders malcontent would 
stand aloof, 

But a stone and mortar Babel, without base and with- 
out roof ? 

Ye are worthy, oh ! my brothers, worthiest of the sons 

of earth — 
Pilers up of stores, preventive of the famine and the 

dearth. 

Though the sun hath marred thy features, though thy 

hand be hard and rough, 
Yet thou too wert God-created out of true and sterling 

stuff. 

Thou hast stood the seasons' changes, Summer's heat 

and Winter's cold, 
With an adamantine hardness, with' a purpose true and 

bold. 

Chosen Conscript in Life's battle, keeping ever watch 

and ward ; 
To thy weaker, listless brother, sure protector, guide 

and guard. 



42 CHANTS FOR TOILERS. 

On the land or on the ocean, toiling ever night and 

day; 
Hand and foot for ever moving to some carol light and 

By the Loom and by the Anvil, by the Shovel and the 

Spade, 
Keeping up the strong life currents that supply the Sea 

of Trade. 

On the roused Atlantic, warring with the fierce and 

wintry blast, 
Rocked by madly heaving surges on the high and giddy 

mast. 

Steclfast in the hour of Duty, when the Danger loometh 

nigh, 
Ever ready, like a true man, to surmount it or to 

die. 

Wheresoever the Toiler worketh, if he work with Faith 

and Love, 
God himself smiles clown approval from the halls of 

bliss above ; 

Delveth with the mud-stained Ditcher, works beside 

him in the field, 
Orders all things meet and duly for the harvest it shall 

yield ; 



CHANTS FOR TOTLERS. 43 

Stands beside the village Vulcan, aids him in his every 

Mow ; 
Klino* and Hang, with ring incessant, while the iron is 

a-glov ; 

Throws the shuttle of the Weaver, guides the Sailor 

o'er the wave, 
Whispers " Onward !" to the strong man, whispers 

" Courage !" to the slave. 

With the Miner goeth downward in the depths of earth 
afar, 

With the Stoker feeds the Engine of the lightning- 
winged car. 

Friend and Brother, God and Father, in the earth, the 

sea, or air, 
Nothing is — but feels Thy presence, nothing is — but 

asks Thy care. 

Toil, toil on, thou art in thy Duty, man, be out of it 

who may, 
Toil befits the son of Adam, 'tis his best and surest 

stay. 

Toil is holy, toil is noble, though it move in lowly 

guise, 
Like a giant tree earth-rooted with its apex in the 

skies. 



44 CHANTS FOR TOILERS. 

Toil is Treasure, Toil is Freedom, while it tasks the 

strength alway, 
Soul-ennobling, still it worketh for the better, brighter 

day. 

For the tender wives that love you, toil, my brothers, 

still toil on, 
For the loving babes that bless you, still the Worker's 

vesture don. 

To your places — God-appointed, yours shall be a high 

reward, 
Of yourselves the gallant victors, faithful servants of 

the Lord. 

Wo to those in lordly places sunk in lethargy su- 
pine, 

With their feastings and their revels, with their music 
and their wine. 

Shallow triflers, morrice-dancers in the earnest game 

of life, 
Bearded children still disporting ->>dth some gew-gaw 

drum or fife. 

Brothers of the order-Witling, with Unreason for its 

rule, 
For a cap and bells contending, which shall best play 

out the fool. 



CHANTS FOR TOILERS. 45 

In the balance weighed and wanting, deemed as worth- 
less as the dust, 

As their life was never living , but betrayal of Grod's 
trust. 

Vineyards foul and all neglected, choked with filthy 

tares and weeds, 
Lie before the eye of Heaven, sum of all their earthly 

deeds. 

Where be all the gifts God gave them, health and 

strength, and land and gold ? 
For some false illusive phantom soul-destroying, trucked 

and sold. 

On their Eights not Duties standing, earthly rulers one 

and all 
Grind and scourge their poorer brother as an outcast 

and a thrall. 

Human Eagles from their Eyries swooping down with 

hungry beak, 
Wayside sheep without a Shepherd still the only prey 

they seek. 

Comes the day of rich reprisal, comes the day of ven- 
geance due, 

As they laid on load with scourges, we will play with 
scourges too. 



46 CHANTS FOR TOILERS. 

Fleetly comes the day of Freedom, long foretold in 

prose and rhyme, 
Mark you not its herald flashes on the brow of Future 

time ? 

Freedom is a viewless essence, and as subtle as the 

wind, 
Xot like ware exposed in market that can ready owner 

find. 

Gyve was never forged could bind it, never yet was 

dungeon made, 
Could debar the rio*ht of egress to that touch-eluding 

shade. 

Freedom liveth, Freedom soareth, howsoe'er you clog 

its flight, 
Out of ashes springs its flame-fire as the dawning out 

of night. 

Rear with cost its Mausoleum, all your gains are light 

as chaff; 
Whoso rears a tomb for Freedom builds an idle 

Cenotaph. 

Freedom is the Child of Heaven, gifted with eternal 

Youth, 
Eldest blessing of the Godhead, earthward sent in Love 

and Ruth. 



CHANTS FOR TOILERS. 47 

Toil, toil on, my pallid brothers, all your toil shall soon 

be done, 
Though you move but as the tortoise, yet the bright 

goal shall be won. 

Haste untoward is not Progress, rash Advance has sad 

Retreat, 
Bide your Time, my earnest brothers, that your work 

may be complete. 

Honor him to whom is honor, who in manhood's prime 

and pride, 
Treads his higher station under, to do battle by your 

side . 

Honor to the earnest Writer, honors high for ever- 
more, 

He who brings high Heaven nearer by the magic of his 
Lore. 

Honor to the earnest Whittier, boldest Thinker of the 

age, 
Wrong-denouncer, with the wisdom of the Hero and 

the Sage. 

Pealing out his Thunder verses, from the Armory of 

Mind, 
Loosing shafts that gall the proudest of the Tyrants of 

Mankind. 



48 CHANTS FOR TOILERS. 

Brothers, wreathe his brow with laurel, speak his praise 

in words of fire, 
Elliott's grave had fitting mourner when a Whittier 

touched the Lyre. 

May his lot in life be happy, may his fame for aye 

endure, 
Your unpaid Apostle — Freedom ! stalwart Champion 

of the Poor. 

Yes, the cause is high and holy, and the men are stout 

and true, 
Overlong we saw the patience of the many with the 

few. 

Now the Writer comes to aid. you with his thoughts of 

import high, 
Scattered broadcast o'er the pages that will live 

eternally. 

And the Poet spins his verses, not for riches or for 

Fame, 
But to win your heart's approval, and to wipe away 

your shame. 

And the thoughts of their Creation shall in beauty 

hourly grow, 
With an inborn power and greatness that shall lay 

Oppression low. 



CHANTS FOR TOILERS. 49 

Then be joyful, oh ! roy brothers, patient Toilers, 

be of cheer, 
For the day of your rejoicing fast and fleetly draweth 

near. 

Tyrants bow their heads, and, trembling, gird then* 

loins for speedy flight, 
Freedom's sword has left the scabbard, Vengeance 

cometh in the nidit. 



DU 



CHANTS FOR TOILERS. 

No. 2.— THE WORKER'S WORLD. 

Ye are fallen on days of evil,* days of cruel wo and 

wrong, 
Feeble cries for justice sending to the gateways of the 

strong. 

Not in panoply of freemen, not in Union do you 

rise, 
But with womanish lam en tings wailing upward to the 

sides. 

Would ye win a nobler guerdon than the pity of the 
few, 

Ye must strive with sterner aspect 'gainst the curse- 
dispensing crew. 

Not with lowly foreheads bending earthward in your 

awe and fear, 
But like sleep-awakened giants proudly robed in manly 

gear. 



CHANTS FOR TOILERS. 51 

Self-reliant, fraternising, hopeful of the better day 
That shall chase before its dawning all your countless 
ills away. 

Taking comfort from the Fable of the staves together 

bound, 
See ye make as firm an Union, just as simple and as 

sound. 

This is now the hour of travail, Oh ! be heedful lest the 

birth 
Should be food for bitter laughter to the proud ones of 

the Earth.. 

Let your tones be clear and laetant, breathed by full 

unstinted breath, 
As befits the tones of Toilers roused from slumber 

worse than death. 

See ye preach the new Evangel with a Prophet's 

tongue of fire, — 
" Every man on earth that labors shall obtain his fitting 

hire." 

Horny hand and iron sinew working on through heat 

and cold 
Shall be paid for every sweat drop by this Tyrant-wor 

shipped Gold. 



52 CHANTS FOR TOILERS 

You shall taste of creature comforts in your homesteads 

once again, 
In a better healthier fashion than the feasts of " Upper 

Ten." 

With the hunger born of hardship ye shall give your 

meals a zest, 
And with joy salute the night time as the herald of 

sweet rest. 

With your ruddy healthful faces ye shall greet the orb 

of day 
Not with features wan and pallid like the loungers of 

Broadway. 

Arm of iron, nerve and sinew, manhood stern from 

head to heel, 
Shall be yours by gift of Labor, use of iron and of 

steel. 

Ye shall cope with wrong and throw it with a giant 

hardihood 
Not like apes of manhood jousting in a mock-heroic 

mood. 

When you run a tilt with Fortune, 't is at Outrance ye 

must fight, 
Every inch of ground disputing 'till you conquer for 

the Right. 



CHANTS FOR TOILERS. 53 

Holding fast the spear of Freedom, though you fight on 

Ruin's ledge, 
Smite the targe of fell oppression ever with the pointed 

edge . 

Though you win no spurs of Knighthood, laurel wreath, 
or praise of pen, ' s • ' 

Ye shall reap a richer harvest in the Love of honest 
men. 

In your suits of homely broadcloth, though you take 

the " shilling side," 
Ye shall flout those silken rustlers prankt in purple 

and in pride. 

In the brisk hive of existence these are but the idle 

drones 
Spinning out their little life-threads as companionless 

as stones. 

But for you the eye of Poet in prophetic vision 
sees 

Higher ends within attainment of your pulseful en- 
ergies, 

Grazing down the shadowy future, down the slope of 

Unborn Time 
Sees the Worker's World arising in its matutinal 

prime. 



54 CHANTS FOR TOILERS. 

On Opinion, Law and Order, shall the Toiler's empire 

stand, 
He who builds on other pillars trusts to uncemented 

sand. 

Truest charity to all men, earnest faith in God above, 
Blended in the radiant tissue of the wonder-worker- 
Love 

Purer teachings, higher longings, wider working fields 
for Mind, 

That now moves in narrow circle like the sad and sight- 
less blind. 

Thunder utterance for the fire-thoughts that now 

smoulder unexprest, 
Surging like to pent up lava in each manly Thinker's 

breast. 

Of the Gospel, better readings — saying to all of human 
kind — 

" Brothers ! for your faith in Jesus, ye shall life eter- 
nal find." 

By the powers of meek Persuasion, not by terror of the 

sword 
Shall the errant sheep be gathered to the bright fold of 

the Lord. 



C H A ^ T S FO R TOILERS. 55 

In this kingdom of the Worker, unto each in his 

degree, 
For the good he doeth solely shall appointed guerdon be. 

Deathless wreaths upon the forehead of the youthful 

bard shall shine, 
Overlong in gloom and sorrow did his mighty heart 
• decline. 

But the Yolumed diapason of his voice shall ring afar 
'Till the True Reformers gather, looking on him as a 

star. 

In this Kingdom of the Worker he shall have the 

highest place 
Who hath dipt into the Future living far beyond his 

race— 

Who hath shewn his mission G-od-like by the reaches 

of his eye, 
Glinting over Past and Present, lighting dim Futurity. 

Not the weak and silken spinner of sophisticated 
Rhyme, 

But a soul to shake the pulses like a Church's Christ- 
mas chime. 

All his har pings caught from nature, lakes and mount- 
ains for his schools 
Not in City smok^ begotten anions rod-directed fools 



56 CHANTS FOR TOILERS. 

This and more the Poet seeth, if the Workers' of the 
day 

Bide but true unto their mission keeping in the right- 
eous way. 

Shunning Pride — the primal error, by which radiant 

angels fell. 
Seeking truth the priceless God-gift, when obtained, to 

guard it well. 

Oh ! my brothers, wrong o'erladen, to your purpose 

firmly bide, 
Grow in w T orth, increase in virtue, God will battle by 

your side. 

Take the lay of love I send you, though its merits be 

but few, 
You may prize it, oh ! my brothers ! I am but a Toiler 

too. 

Striving too for wife and children, toiling night and 

toiling day, 
Ah ! how great the labor mental ! ah ! how poor and 

scant the pay. 

When the golden bowl is broken, when the silver 

chord's in twain, 
I have nought to leave my loved ones all my toiling 

yields but pain. 



CHANTS TOR TOILERS. 57 

Fool ! to speak in tones despondent, heedless of the 

brighter side — 
Of the love of beauteous children and the angel made 

my bride. 

And a name intact and stainless kept from cradle unto 

grave, 
By the worth of my forefathers, sturdy Toilers ! true 

and brave, 

Not a stain upon its scutcheon, since 'twas borne to me 

by Time, 
Still it soars with all the honor and the glory of its 

prime. 

Fool ! to speak in tones despondent, when the efforts 

of my pen, 
Won thy praise proud child of Harvard, loved of Grod 

and praised of men. 

Thou, whose strains like angel music falling softly on 

the ear, 
Touch the heart as if by magic so, it cannot choose but 

hear. 

Ah it listens and it follows at thy lightest word, I 
ween, 

With sweet joy, thou gentle wizard, Painter of Evan- 
geline. 



58 CHANTS FOR TOILERS. 

Fool ! to speak in tones despondent, when each day hut- 
brings me near 
To the promise of the Gospel in another brighter 

sphere- 
To the Heaven, of the holy, of the radiant and the 

bless'd, 
" Where the wicked cease from troubling, and the 
weary are at rest." 



59 



CHANTS FOE TOILEE8, 



No. 3.— CONCLUSION. 



Now my summer task is ended and the hand is free 

that gave 
Words of counsel to the Toiler, words of cheer unto 

the brave. 

We have learn'd to know each other, learn'd our stead- 
fast faith to prove, 

In the lessons and the promptings of the marvel worker, 
Love. 

How it brings " surcease of sorrow," how it lightens 

every load, 
Cheers the Worker on his mission, strewing roses on 

the road. 

In the silence of the midnight, in my lonely, lonely 

room, 
I have felt its lightest whisper with a magic light the 

ofloom. 



60 CHANTS FOR TOILERS. 

It has cheered me at my labor giving energy and 

fire, 
And a purpose high and holy to the breathings of my 

lyre. 

It has linked me to your quarrel with a strong, 

enduring chain, 
Giving order to the fancies that were crowded on my 

brain, 

'Till I strove for guerdons better than the plaudits of 
the proud, 

Turning with a weary feeling from the phantom- 
chasing crowd — 

From the chord of self, evoking music, wild but sweet 

to hear, 
Fraught with mystic strange revealings to the earnest 

thinker's ear, 

Preaching Progress, preaching Freedom and a glorious 

new crusade, 
'Gainst the Wronger and the Tyrant who oppress us 

and degrade. 

Preaching Union to the units that were scattered far 

apart, 
'Till they formed a federation with an universal 

heart. 



CHANTS FOR TOILERS. 61 

Law and Order for their basis of a monument 

secure, 
For the planting of the Standard of the Army of the 

Poor. 

As a pioneer among you I have labored day by 

da ) r , 
To remove the toils of custom that were cumbering the 
way. 

Taking soundings in the shallows of your fortune's 

adverse sea, 
For the rocks beneath the surface where your large 

hope wrecked may be — 

Keeping careful watch for ever as a pilot and a 

guide 
For some brilliant, shining beacon that would light you 

o'er the tide ; 

Held the rudder firm and boldly, ordered all things for 

the best, 
Seeking out a placid haven where your shatter'd 

barque may rest. 

When you winced beneath the tauntings of the rich and 

better born, 
I have taught you to repay them with intenser, bitter 
>rn. 



62 CHANTS FOR TOILERS. 

Pointing to the gifts G-od gave you — health and 
strength and peace of mind, 

In the mould of Nature formed not as mimics of man- 
kind— 

But of giant strength and stature, with an aptitude 

complete, 
To resist the season's changes in extremes of cold and 

heat. 

I am with you, I am of you, all your hopes and all your 

fears 
Find an ever open portal in my love-awakened 

ears 

For I too have felt misfortune and the pang of honest 

pride, 
Standing on the verge of ruin, not a friend to seek my 

side 

I have found the dreams of boyhood fiction in the garb 

of truth, 
Manhood's sorrows aye belying all the promises of 

youth 

On the verge of ruin standing, with a heart of care and 

gloom, 
I have waited in the silence for the speaking of my 

doom. 



CHANTS FOR TOILERS. 63 

Wo is me, how I have striven with a fortitude for 

years, 
I have borne my share of trial, I have wept my share 

of tears. 

But the independent spirit, and the thought that I was 

free, 
As the bright moon after tempests, made the future 

shine for me. 

Fairy land was all around me — perfumed seemed the 

summer air, 
And my feet where'er I wended trod on roses bright 

and fair ; 

Came the dawn of Inspiration, in a sudden flood of 

light, 

O'er my mind and o'er my spirit with a host of fancies 

bright- 
Then thy world, Imagination ! stood revealed before 

my view, 
Where with looks all love and passion my young spirit 

fleetly flew : 

Then I learned to speak in music 'till the tracings of 

my pen 
Had a spell to touch the feelings and the sympathies 

of men, 



64 CHANTS FOR TOILERS. 

Freedom, Nature, and Religion, and the brotherhood 

of man, 
Were the spell-words that like lightning through my 

inmost being ran— 

Urging me to Work and Labor, from the armory of 

mind, 
Taking stronger, mightier weapons for the conscripts 

of mankind. 

'Till in Rhythmic march progressive, sons of Toil 

throughout the land, 
'Neath Reform's imposing standard took a station 

proud and grand. 

Rending bulwark after bulwark that debarred them 

from their right, 
With a strong Titanic vigor, and a Glod-awaken'd 

might, 

'Till a panic seized on tyrants marring all their cruel 

mirth, 
As they heard the new pulsations in the mighty heart 

of earth — 

Felt a Revolution's advent, saw the quick revolving 

wheel 
Of a wondrous change and sudden for the universal 

weal — - 



CHANTS FOR TOILERS. 



65 



Saw the giant-like dimensions of the people's mon- 



arch — Thought, 



Pregnant in the hearts of millions by a million workers 
wrought — 

Heard the poet like a prophet in a voice of thunder 



Songs of music all potential as though lightning touched 
the string — 

Saw the meteor -like portents on the brow of coming 

Time, 
Read the words of awful import in the page of prose 

and rhyme — 

Heard the thun'drous diapason of a music out of 

sight- 
Saw a bright shape strive with darkness as the day-dawn 

with the night — 

To be victor in the struggle and to shine eternally 
As the Angel incarnated whom we know as Liberty. 

Oh ! I've labored like the loving striving ever day and 

night, 
"Weaving plots to break your fetters that your labor may 

be light. 

Many a morning by the waters of the far resounding sea 
Have I walked in meditation ail my spirit fancy free — 



66 CHANTS FOR TOILERS. 

Many a morning in the forest, ere the birds began to sing, 
Have I sung of Freedom's advent, harping on the 

bounding string — 

Many an hour upon the mountain in the dark and 

lonely glen, 
By the brawling mountain torrent far away from haunts 

of men, 

With the red deer bounding by me, and the blue sky 

overhead, 
Has my spirit held communion with the spirits of the 

dead — 

Calling down the great departed from their high and 

blissful home, 
Holding converse with the brightest of your heroes, 

Greece and Rome — 

Saw again the manly bearing of the high heroic 
Three,* 

Saw again the bold Three Hundred in thy pass, Ther- 
mopylae — 

Stood beside the brothers Gracchi, heard again their 
words of flame 

Stirring up the banded people 'gainst the haught Patri- 
cian name— 

* The Horatii. 



CHANTS FOR TOILER-. 67 

From the base of Pornpey's statue turning when great 

Caesar fell, 
Saw the sword of Kosciusko and the gleaming shaft of 
' Tell— 

Saw of Borne the latest Tribune in the people's 

maddest storm, 
The young champion of Progress in the chariot of 

Reform ; 

4nd I caught their burning lessons— on my soul they 

fell like flame, 
'Till they blended with my nature and a part of me 

beer. 

In my musings, in my dr earnings, still for you alone I 

strove 
But to win your heart's approval and be worthy of your 

love, 

I have trampled mine own sorrow, I have stifled mine 

own care, 
That I may the better serve you — unencumbered as 

the ah*. 

Oh, my brothers ! in the distance, starry-eyed and 

luminous, 
"^ith a graceful port majestic Freedom cometh unto 

us ; 



68 CHANTS FOR TOILERS. 

On her brow the noonday radiance of a glorious summer 
sun, 

"With a smile that dims the lightning cometh the Eter- 
nal One. 

Flow'rs are springing wheresoever her celestial feet are 

prest, 
With the fragrance sempiternal of the Eden of the 

blest ; 

Fountains laugh and rivers sparkle, into ripples breaks 

the lake, 
All the face of Nature smile th blissful smiles for her 

sweet sake. 

At her touch the chain must sunder and the prison be 

unbarred, 
Though ten thousand armed tyrants kept unceasing 

watch and ward ; 

And her frown, oh God ! — the anger of that young 

Immortal's frown, 
When she hurleth kingly anarchs and their mighty 

kingdoms down, 

Like an earthquake's roar commingled with the moan- 
ing of the sea, 

Sounds her lightest word of anger, tyrant rulers, 
unto ye. 



CHANTS FOR TOIL] 69 

On and ever on, my brothers, God of Heaven give you 

speed, 
'Tis an age of iron truly asking iron aid indeed ; 

But the will of man is potent, if he uses reason 

right, 
To evoke from utter chaos all the long imprisoned 

light : 

Yes, the mind, the master-worker, plans the labor for 

the hand, 
Ever ruling — the presiding guardian-spirit of the 

land. 

On, still on, my earnest brothers, with oppression war- 
fare wage, 9 
'Till your struggle be recorded as the wonder of the 



Be but hopeful, be but trustful, be but loyal to the 

cause, 
Down with wrong and with injustice, down with tyrants 

and their laws ; 

Lift your jubilant loud voices, sing the paeans of the 

bold, 
In the breezes of high Heaven, be the Toiler's flag 

unroll'd ; 



70 CHANTS FOR TOILERS. 

Ill your manhood gather round it wheresoever it may 

stand, 
Guard it ever with the boldest of your lion-hearted 

band ; 

Let the traitor who deserts it be down-trampled in the 

dust, 
As the coward who like woman fled the quarrel of the 

just 

Now my summer task is ended, and the fruit is at your 

feet, 
If they win your hearts to love them I will deem the 

labor sweet 

Now for me the silent sorrow and the loneliness and 

gloom » 

Phantom shapes of long lost pleasures flit around my 

lonely room. 

Days of childhood, — summer rambles, through green 

woods and gardens fair, 
Days of youthhood — higher longings, sunny castles in 

the air ; 

Days of manhood, — toil unresting, bitter want within 

my door, 
Crowd around me in the silence and with anguish I 

deplore. 



CHANTS FOR TOILERS. 71 

Where be they, the rainbow-tinted dreams of fame that 
cheer 'd me on ? 

Echo answers in the distance — " like to summer friend- 
ship's, gone." 

Where be they who named me ever as the one they 

cherished best ? 
Hark the mournful echoes answer, " they have left 

thee to unrest." 

Where, oh ! where get balm for sorrow, and a sure 

return for love ? 
And the echo answers sweetly like to music — " look 

above." 

Where is pleasure sure and lasting, free from every 

care and strife ? 
Hark the echo sadly singe th — " weary spirit not in 

life." 

When shall worth have fitting honor and a never fading 

wreath ? 
Hark ! in tones that sooth the spirit, echo answers, 

"after death." 

Truthful echo, mournful echo of the thought within my 

brain 
I am wedded to my sorrow — my repinings are in 

vain. 



rZ CHANTS FOR TOILERS. 

Come the ills of life the faster and the darker for my 

tears, 
Falling ever as they've fallen now for long and weary 

years. 

Oh, my Alice, pure and loving, oh ! my children, fair 

and young, 
'Tis for you that I am grieving — 'tis for you my heart 

is wrung ; 

Closer to me, closer to me, that my earnest tongue may 

bless, 
While these arms of love enfold thee in a sweet and 

fond caress. 

Oh ! I would that I had riches my affection deep to 

prove, 
With the rare gifts I would lavish at the feet of those I 

love. 

Gems should glitter, oh ! my Alice, in the mazes of 

thy hair, 
Naught but raiment rich and costly should my loved 

one have to wear. 

And the tiny little Alice with her roguish eyes of 

blue, 
Should be prankt in silks and satins, and have rings 

and trinkets too , 



CHANTS FOR TOILERS. ' 73 

And for him, the sturdy roarer, silver whistle he should 

blow, 
'Till with trowsers thoughts of greatness in his little 

heart should grow. 

But till then this plague of childhood, with a mint of 

money bought, 
Would console him as he " whistled in his utter want 

of thought.' 5 

Wo is me, befooled by fancies, and a sorrow at my 

door, 
Morn and even moaning ever — M that 'twill leave me 

nevermore." 

Wealthy homes are all around me, homes of luxury 

and ease, 
Wine and music, mirth and laughter, but alas we've 

none of these. 

Wealthy merchants in the market, dollars chink in 

every street, 
Signs of pomp and signs of splendor wheresoe'er I turn 

my feet. 

Comes the winter dark and hoary, bringing sharp and 

wintry cold, 
To the homestead of the Toiler owning neither land 



74 ' CHANTS FOR TOILERS. 

5 Tis the month of dark December ; fleetly fall the 

flakes of snow — 
Ice is on the running water, and the sharp winds 

keenly blow. 

Would I were at rest and lying in kind Death's 

unbroken sleep, 
Never more to war with fortune — never more to wail 

and weep. 

Ah ! my step is getting feeble, and my heart is quite 

opprest : 
I am weary, very weary — I will seek a little rest. 



75 



MY ALICE. 



Bright as the sun in the East awaking, 
Bright as the foam of the billow breaking, 
Light as the lark from the lawn upspringing, 
Gray as the notes of his sky-born singing, 
Calm as the heart of an infant sleeping, 
Calm as the stars their night-watch keeping, 
My heart is now free from Fortune's malice ; 
My home is bright as a fairy palace ; 
My soul drinks love out of Joy's bright chalice. 
Filled to the brim by my heart's queen, Alice. 



With spells of might, that I would not sever, 
She links my heart to her own forever ; 
Lightly that heart in my bosom dances, 
Stirred to its deeps by her love -lit glances ; 
Just as the waves of the world-wide ocean 
Answer the moon with a sweet emotion, 
Happy days glide away fast and fleetly, 
Happy nights, just as fleet, pass as sweetly ; 



7* MY ALICE. 

My heart is blest, free from Fortune's malice ; 
My home is bright as a fairy palace ; 
My soul drinks love out of Joy's bright chalice, 
Filled to the brim by my heart's queen, Alice. 

in. 

Cheered by the sound of her dulcet laughter, 
My young heart pictures a bright hereafter, 
Stainless and pure as the bright skies o'er me, 
Angel, incarnate, she moves before me ; 
Lamp of a heart by deep sorrow shaded, 
Brightening and gilding each hope long faded ; 
Out of the wrecks of a day of sorrow 
Building the dome of a sun-bright morrow ; 
Fondly her arms are around me twining, 
Brightly her eyes are above me shining : 
Sweet is that voice that will ever move me, 
Whispering to my heart, " Love me, love me." 
My heart is blest, free from Fortune's malice ; 
My home is bright as a fairy palace ; 
My soul drinks love out of Joy's bright chalice, 
Filled to its brim by my heart's queen, Alice. 



Sitting beside me all the day smiling, 
Sorrow and hoary time both beguiling ; 



MY ALICE. 



Sitting beside me, clinging unto me, 

Many and sweet are her ways to woo me ; 

My life's a garden of fruits in flushing, 

Love is the stream through its bright space rushing ; 

Ever and aye is the streamlet flowing, 

Ever and aye are the fair flowers blowing, 

Ever and aye, like brother with brother, 

Joy and Hope through the space chase each other, 

And the garden's queen of fawn-like lightness 

Is Alice, my wife, the soul of brightness. 

My heart is blest, safe from Fortune's nialice ; 

My home is bright as a fairy palace ; 

My soul drinks love out of Joy's bright chalice, 

Filled to the brim by my heart's queen, Alice. 



78 



WHAT I SAID TO MY SOUL. 



Forward, spirit, fearless onward, 

Till jour task in life be done, 
With an eye of hope cast sunward, 

Though your toil be but begun ; 
To strive well in your vocation, 

Let it be thy joy and pride, 
Making Truth your inspiration, 

Taking Reason for your. guide. 
Unto no man be a debtor, 

Though thy dearest friend he be ; 
He who borrows binds a fetter 

On Grod's best gift — liberty ! 
With a shout of bold defiance, 

Against Error take the field ; 
If your sword be Self-Reliance, 

And the sense of Right your shield. 
On, then, spirit, fearless onward, 
Till your task in life be done, 
With an eye of hope cast sunward, 
Though your toil be but begun ! 



WHAT I SAID TO MY SOUL. 79 

" Toil progressive," hark the Present, 

Crying unto fool and sage, 
" Can alone call forth a crescent, 

To illume an iron age." 
With unflagging nerve and sinew, 

CO O 7 

Toil, as toil you ought and may ; 
As you set out, so continue, 

Though all thorny he thy way ; 
Like the tortoise of the fable, 

Still move on, although you creep, 
Lest that, like the hare unstable, 
Near the gaol you sink to sleep. 
On, then, spirit, fearless onward, 

Till thy task in life be done, 
With an eye of hope cast sunward, 
Though your toil be but begun. 



Unto empty boasting, never, 

Of the work thou dost be led — 
'Tis the shallow stream that ever 

Babbles loudest o'er its bed ; 
Holding all men as your brothers, 

While you use a Christian tone, 
When you name the faith of others, 

Cling the faster to your own. 



80 A LAMENT ON A BROTHER DECEASED, 

From no duty think of shrinking, 

Nurse no thoughts of doubt or gloom, 
And with conscience light keep thinking 
On a life beyond the tomb. 

On, then, spirit, fearless onward, 
Till your task in life be done, 
With an eye of hope cast sunward, 
Though your toil be but begun. 



A LAMENT ON A BROTHER DECEASED. 

I move by the heaving deep, 

Alone, 
When the winds awake from sleep, 

To moan. 

I gaze on its bosom blue 

Afar, 
Where mirror'd below I view 

Each star. 



A LAMENT ON A BROTHER DECEASED. 81 

From mine eye the heavy tears 

I dry, 
As I think on the happy years 

Gone by, 

For him of the fair young brow 

I weep, 
Who takes in the church-yard now 

His sleep ; 

For he was the star above 

Sun-bright, 
That tinged with the light of love 

My night, 

Sadly I now must roam, 

And sigh 
For him, who has found a home 

On high. 

My tongue in the halls of mirth 

Is mute, 
And sad are thy notes on earth, 

My lute. 

A fiend o'er rny bosom steals 

Through air, 
And his voice all wildly wails — 

" Despair." 



82 



"ALBEIT." 



MY PHILOSOPHY. 



Though my days are days of sorrow, 

Though still sadder days are nigh, 
Of the dawn of some bright morrow 

Still a Dreamer, I ; 
Be the season rough or vernal, 

Looking towards the starry sky, 
Of a friendship sempiternal 

Still a Dreamer, I. 

Though earth's doubters, nigh heart-broken, 

At each trial grieve and sigh, 
Of the words that Grod hath spoken 

A Believer, I ; 
Plague may come, and Famine longer 

Man's weak heart and soul may try, 
That God's mercy will prove stronger 

A Believer, I. 



ALBEIT. 83 

Though she bends down now despairing 

Vv r ith a sad and tearful eye. 
Of a better day for Erin 

Still a Dreamer, I ; 
That the bitter tears she weepeth 

Will be dried up bye and bye, 
That " she is not dead but sleepeth" 

A Believer, I. 

Though her Brave who've nobly striven 

Under prison fetters lie ; 
That they missioned were of Heaven, 

A Believer, I ; 
That in days to come, then' story, 

Drawing tears from ev'ry eye, 
Shall crown all with deathless glory, 

A Believer, I. 

Though the world has might to sever 

Many a closely woven tie, 
That some hearts love fondly ever, 

A Believer, I ; 
In a love no time hath altered, 

In a love no gold could buy, 
That in Life's worst ill ne'er faltered, 

A Believer, I. 



84 ALBEIT. 

Though no comforts sure and lasting 

May be mine before I die. 
Pleasure's bright cup never tasting, 

Still a Dreamer, I. 
Though my air-built castles crumble 

"When they brightly meet mine eye, 
Though my lot be poor and humble, 

Still a Dreamer, I ; 

Though we spurn our poorer brother, 

Though we coldly pass him by, 
That we'll yet love one another, 

A Believer, I ; 
That the miser's heart will soften 

When the famine-stricken cry, 
That his hand will give, and often, 

A fond Dreamer, I. 



Dreaming still, and still Believing, 

That mankind will yet descry, 
God himself console the grieving, 

And raise up the lowly, high ; 
Of this Faith so grand and holy, 

Let the Atheist doubt and lie 
In a spirit meek and holy, 

A Believer, I. 



85 



A VISION OF THE SEA. 



On the ship flew, like a race-horse true 

His rider's command obeying, 
To the spur and the rein dashing over the plain, 

The might of his powers displaying. 

On the ship went with her topmasts bent, 
For the breeze in its might was waking, 

And washed the ship's side with the heaving tide 
Into billows its broad breast breaking, 

And then came a roll from pole unto pole, 
As though then extremes were meeting, 

And a flash of fire from a cloud of ire 
O'er the lurid sky went fleeting. 

With a drooping mast, the strength of the blast. 

Our stout barque bravely bore it, 
Though it came aslant with an earthquake's rant, 

Sweeping waves in air before it, 



86 A VISION OF THE SEA, 



From the frigid North in imVht it came forth 
With a fiend to direct its motion, 

Who came from afar in his icy car 
O'er the depths of the Artie Ocean. 



Though it came on our barque like a thief in the dark, 

When skill could not aught avail her, 
She bent not aside but dashed on in pride, 

Like a stout and a gallant sailor. 

She liked not for dirge the moan of the surge, 

And life-like she braved it proudly, 
And went o'er the sea as an eagle would flee, 

When her eaglets are screaming loudly. 



On, on, and away, to the tempest's play, 
O'er each mountain wave she darted, 

And their caps of snow at every blow, 
In glittering spangles parted. 

On, on, and away, like the lightning's ray, 
O'er the vault of the blue sky flying, 

Fleet as the thought by his fancy brought, 
To the soul of the lone one sighing. 



A VISION OF THE SEA. 87 

On, on, and away, as the beam of day 

Leaps forth from its Eastern pillow, 
With its wings so bright and its rays so light, 

Our barque scudded through the billow. 



Then the morning came but no car of flame 

By the glorious Sun was driven, 
And no ray did shine o'er the heaving brine 

Or o'er the expanse of Heaven. 

The sun hid its ray from the world that day, 
When our barque o'er the wild waves glided, 

And all looked dark as when Noah's ark 
By the hand of a Grod was guided, 



But a voice spoke out in the tempest rout, 
And its tones seemed to mock at danger, 

And an eye looked down with a haughty frown, 
And a glance unto fear a stranger. 



" Hold on men all, let the mainsail fall. 
And down to its boom fast bind it, 

Let it howl at will under bare poles still, 
If a haven's on earth she'll find it, 



88 PROGRESS. 

" My merry lads, wake, though our timbers creak, 

Let each man attend to duty, 
And in port we'll find, looks and glances kind, 

From the love-lighted eyes of beauty." 

He ceased, and the crew to their hard toil flew, 
For his yoice like a spell-word bound them, 

And the setting sun saw their labor done, 
And a glass-like sea around them. 



"PROGRESS." 



Hark ! the iron age is speaking 

With a mighty thunder-tone 
Like the ocean surges breaking 

'G-ainst the immemorial stone 
Hark the iron age demanding 

Not in anger but in ruth — 
" Care-worn Workers, are ye banding 

In the cause of Right and Truth ? 



PROGRESS 89 



II. 



" Progress, Progress, ever onward 

Fleet as lightning see you move, 
Forms erect, and eyes cast sunward 

With proud Faith in God above, 
Down with Tyrants and then lie tors, 

For the strife your armour don, 
'Till a world shall hail you victors, 

Toilers, on, forever on. 



" Progress, Progress, toil and sorrow, 

Strife and danger — "brave them all, 
Lest the Future's coming morrow 

Find each Toiler still a thrall ; 
Ev'ry day some task beginning 

You must close ere day is gone, 
Day of rest is day of sinning ! 

Brothers, on, forever on. 

IV. 

" Progress, Progress, friends and brothers, 
Forward now, or die as slaves, 

Changing natures with your mothers, 
Sinking into self-made graves ; 



90 PROGRESS. 

Toilers, act like bold aspirants, 
Freedom's garb of battle don, 

Swerve not, crouch not, down with tyrants, 
Brothers, on, forever on. 

v. 

" Progress ! Progress ! no man flinches," 

Hark ! the earnest Toilers say, 
" Though we now advance by inches, 

Milestones soon shall mark our way, 
And the watchword for the lowly, 

Left by heroes dead and gone- 
Shall be " Progress, high and holy, 

Toilers, on, forever on." 



91 



TO RALPH WALDO EMERSON. 



Speak, speak on, surpassing spirit. 
With thy honey-laden tongue 

'Till the sense of thy large merit 
Fills the hearts of old and young ; 

'Lorn and sad, we strike out blindly, 
In a sea of Error lost, 

Help us, guide us, gently, kindly 
Show the ford at which you cross 'd. 



Speak, and ail the doubts that blind us, 

One by one will pass away — 
Countless milestones left behind us 

In our slow advance tow'rds day ; 
Overlong the false Ideal 

Kept us on a weary chase — 
We would know not now the Real 

If we met it face to face. 



92 TO RALPH WALDO EMERSON. 

III. 

We have looked on Kings in wonder, 

We have given them our trust ; 
Thou hast rent their robes asunder, 

Thou hast seen the primal dust. 
We 5 ve been on the surface gliding, 

Marking bubbles come and go,' 
While thou wert the deeps dividing 

Gleaning golden sands below. 

IV. 

To the things of beauty vernal 

We with wilful blindness hold, 
While thou seekest the Eternal 

With the love that ne'er grows cold ; 
We but know the finite distance 

'Tween us and the glorious stars, 
While thy soul finds rare e'xistence 

Far beyond their flaming cars. 



Speak, oh ! speak, thou Prophet-Poet ! 

Tell us what bright aids are thine 
Truth, — in its least part to know it, 

Clear as symbol or as sign ; 



HENRY CLAY. 93 



Speak, and let our gloom be riven, 
Teach us in our Wisdom's dearth, 

How thy full soul finds a Heaven 
Bright and blissful, e'en on Earth, 



HENKY CLAY. 



Let empty braggarts boast at will, 

Let knaves dissension sow ! 
Within the land are statesmen still 

To ward off traitor blow. 
Not all the gold the earth could hold, 

Not all the honors high 
That Kings could give, or man receive, 

Our darling's truth could buy — 
Our hearts he fills, he chains our wills, 

Let fools and knaves gainsay — - 
The Chieftain brave to guide and save, 

Is matchless Henry Clay. 



94 HENRY CLAY. 

We trusted him when waves were high, 

When all was dark to view, 
When pallid cow'rds would turn and fly, 

That heart was stout and true, 
And come what may, by night or day 

Of darker, sadder ill, 
When foes assail, we'll never quail, 

But trust our darling still. 
No ruffian hand on Fatherland 

A finger rude will lay, 
'Tis shielded by the spirit high 

Of matchless Henry Clay. 

'Tis his to bear a constant care 

Of magnitude untold — 
To hold and keep, while others sleep, 

" The sheep within the fold ;"* 
The night is dark, round Freedom's ark, 

The angry breakers rise, 
The lightnings flash, the thunders crash, 

No star is in the skies ! 
But be of cheer, a pilot's near. 

To him, our night is day, 
What can o'er whelm, while by the helm 

Stands matchless Henry Clay. 

* The Union. 



HENRY CLAY. 95 

He holds the right with main and might, 

'Tis up-hill tries the wind ! 
Give all the start, that noble heart 

Will never lag behind, 
But foremost* be, when Liberty 

Throws wide her council-hall, 
'Mong sage " grave men" with tongue or pen, 

The sagest of them all ! 
He yields to none, that matchless one 

Whom we regard to-day, 
Whate'er betide, as Chief and Guide, 

Our darling Henry Clay. 

* Mr. Clay is generally first in attendance in the Senate, 



96 



TO MY MOTHER. 



WRITTEN ON BOARD SHIP "NAOMI." 



Let the deep and mighty sea 

Calm, or aye, unresting be, 

Still my heart beats true to thee ! 



'Neath the sky so deeply blue 
Flight of bird was ne'er so true 
As my spirit's flight to you. 

in. 

Over land and over wave 
Speeds it in its purpose brave, 
To give back the love you gave- 

[V. 

In the gladsome days of old, 
True as e'er was tested gold, 
With an interest ten-fold. 



TO MY MOTHER. 97 



Every trace of land to-day, 
In the distance pass'd away, 
I may soon be cold as clay. 



Though the sea-mew sing my dirge. 
Though the waves my corpse may urge 
Unto Maelstrom's whirling surge — 



Thoughts of thee before I die, 
Shall throng -round me soothingly, 
Killing my great misery. 

VIII. 

In that hour, when with scant breathy 
I shall lie 'tween life and death — 
Thou wilt whisper " be of faith, 5? 

IX. 

And mine eyes uplift shall be, 
Spite of fate, exultingly 
To the Christ of Calvary. 



98 TO MY MOTHER. 



Let the darkest ills betide, 
Wo and death on every side- 
Seeing but the Crucified. 

XL 

To the King of Terrors, I 

With a soul elate will cry — 

" Death, where is your victory ?" 

xn. 

Spite of wayside wand'rings here, 
The repentant sinner's tear 
Heavenward his soul may bear. 

XIII. 

And its portal backward roll'd, 
Sheep, that longest shunn'd the fold ? 
Pasture as they did of old — 

xiv. 

Feeding upon Asphodel, 
Drinking at Truth's sacred well, 
Holding Error damnable. 



TO MY MOTHER. 99 



XV. 



Thus thy spirit over mine, 
Shall like faithful beacon shine- 
Pointino: to a land divine. 



XVI. 



Banishing all vain regret, 
"Whispering, " we'll be happy yet, 
When our earthly sun has set." 



XVII 



Whisp'ring, " we may yet abide 
With the loved who've left our side," 
Haply now beatified. 



XVIII. 



With a brow untouched by care, 
I will teach my soul to dare, 
Never bending to despair. 



Let the worst of ills assail, 
Let the boldest spirit quail, 
Knowing no such word as u fail." 



100 TO MY MOTHER. 



I will suffer, I will strive, 
Spurning ev'ry bar and gyve, 
Wisdom's honey sweet to hive. 

XXI. 

Working for no selfish end, 

On my destined course I'll wend, 

Making Truth a bosom friend. 

XXII. 

Straining nerve and working mind, 
By no prejudice made blind, 
Loving all of human kind. 

XXIII. 

As you would that I should love, 
That my soul may spotless prove 
In the sight of God above. 

xxiv. 

Scorning each base influence, 
Shielded under Virtue's fence, 
Your fond love — my recompense. 



TO MY MOTHER, 101 



XXV. 



Under God, ray purity, 
If I live from error free, 
Mother, shall be due to thee. 



XXVI. 



From the distant western clime, 

In the darksome winter time, 

I have penn'd for thee this rhyme. 



'Tis the artless lay of youth, 
Thou wilt look on it with ruth, 
Thou wilt love it for its truth. 

XXVIII. 

For 'neath skies so deeply blue, 
Flight of bird was ne'er so true, 
As my spirit's flight to you. 



102 



STILL STRUGGLE ON. 



Still struggle on 
Through trial and trouble, 

All of hope is not gone, 
The toil will ennoble, 

If real and earnest 
You toil for a morrow 

With zeal of the sternest. 
While sorrow, 
And trial, and darkest privations, 
Like worms undying 

Are gnawing on ever, 
Attesting thy patience — 

Ah, let it swerve never 
Though wo and disaster 
Are trooping on faster, 
To find you all wearily, 
Lonely and drearily, 
Sighing. 



I 



STILL STRUGGLE ON. 103 

Still struggle on, 
As the bold man should strive 
With the chain and the gyve. 
All of hope is not gone 
If the spirit's alive. 
Let the ruin not come 

In the darkness of night, 
As it does on the dumb 

And the wanting of sight, — - 
But in day, 
By the light of the sun, 
Mark the strength of the foe 

While you may. 
Put your trust but in One — ■ 
In the God-head above, 
And you'll know 
What it is to be free 
As the wind or the sea, — 
By the light of his love 
Led below. 

Still struggle on, 
For the Life-battle don 
The strong armor of Faith 
And the keen sword of Eight. 

Think you these, 
Have not power over Death, 



104 STILL STRUGGLE ON 

And a magical might ? 

Heaven sees 
With a bright beaming eye, 
With the sunlight of Love, 
For the heart of the bold, 
'Till a victor he prove 
With the courage of old — 
'Till the dark sorrows fly, 
That in dole and in gloom 
Were presaging his doom 
Desolate, — 

'Till he be 

Thraldom free : 
And his fate, 
Like the soul from the tomb, 
A new aspect assume, 
And a beauty more fair 
For the bygone despair 

That had lain 
On his pathway through life 

Like a chain, — 
Till the anguish and strife 
In their horrible might, 
With a stinging intense — 

With a strong lurid light — 
To bewilder the sense, 
Fell in fire on the brain. 



STILL STRUGGLE ON, 105 

Still struggle on ! 

Let the summer friends fly,— 

What are they, 

When they're gone 

Far away, 

But the phantoms that stood 

Between us and the sky, 
Ever pow'iiess for good ? 

Let the recreants go ; — ■ 
There was ruin and guile, 

Such as sunbeams lend snow, 
In their cold, snaky smile. 

They are gone, they are gone I 
Let their memory fade 

As a false light that shone 

To allure us awhile 

With a Parasite smile, 

Till our trust was betrayed, 
If again they should rise 
With the hope we may prize, 
Let them read in our eyes 
How we hate and despise 
The base tools of the proud, 

Of the wealthy and vain, 
Who life -service have vowed 

To the spirit of Gain. 



106 STILL STRUGGLE ON. 

Let them be 

As the dead. 
We are free, 

They are fled. • 
And our trust shall henceforth 
Be in honor and worth. 
Be it ours like the valiant, 
With sorrows battalion'd, 
To labor and strive,— 
With Evil and Error 
To cope without terror, 
And boldly to rive 
The fetters around us 
That pain us and wound us ;— 
And will cease, ah ! never, 
Till earnest endeavor 
Has crushed them forever 

To earth. 
'Till Freedom's bright soul. 

Like a Phoenix arisen, 
Shall be free of control 

And the gloom of the prison,- 
Till it bid the forsaken 
From anguish awaken 

To mirth. 
Then on, struggle on, 



LITERATURE AND ART. 107 

Break the bar and the gyve, — 
All of hope is not gone,— 
While the spirit's alive 
We must struggle and strive. 



LITERATURE AND ART. 

WRITTEN FOR AN ENGRAVING IN SARTAIN S MAGAZINE 

Oh ! thou bright and blest Ideal, 

Radiant vision of my dreams. 
Lighting up the darksome Real 

With your rainbow-tinted gleams ; 
I have woo'cl thee long and fondly, 

With a proucl, impassioned heart, 
And thy dove-eye 'd, fair twin children. 
Beauteous Literature and Art ; 
The glorious, glorious sisters, 
How beautiful to see. 
How lightsome 
And how brightsome 
And how radiant they be ! 



108 LITERATURE AND ART. 

With their smiling, 

And beguiling, 
Care and sorrow, what are ye ? 
In the sunlight of their glances, 
Ah ! how beautiful to see. 

Would'st thou know the thoughts of sages ? 

Would'st thou read the poet's song ? 
One fair sister holds the volume — 

See, she waits not overlong. 
Would'st thou see the canvass speaking, 

Life-like, to the gazer's heart ? 
Bend before the fair twin children, 
Beauteous Literature and Art. 
The glorious, glorious sisters, 
How beautiful to see, 
Like a vision 
All Elysian, 
In theh^ loveliness they be : 
Bow down, mortal, 
At their portal, 
That opes but to melody ; 
At the portal of the sisters, 
Ah ! how beautiful to see. 

They are smiling on each other, 
They are speaking words of love, 



LITERATURE AND ART. 109 

Cheering on each other's efforts, 

That her task may lighter prove ; 
For the genius, fired hj Heaven, 

Hath of selfishness no part, 
And your sympathy is godlike, 
Beauteous Literature and Art. 
The Ideal's fair twin children, 
Oh ! how beautiful they be ! 
Sunlight dances 
In then* glances, 
With a sky-born brilliancy ; 
May they never 
' Part or sever, 
But in beauty still be seen, 
In the Dages 
Of the sages 
Of the " Union Magazine," 



110 



THE DYING GIRL: 



A BALLAD OF THE AFFECTIONS 



I. -THE COMPLAINT. 

I am weary, dearest mother, my poor heart is cold as 

clay, 
And my head is sorely aching, since the dawning of 

the day ; 
When my father comes from working — when a few 

night prayers I've said — 
Ere the bright stars shine in Heaven, I will slip 

away to bed ; — 
I've been poorly, dearest mother, from the time that 

Willie died,— 
From the hour that first he sicken'd, sure I never 

left his side : 
Sure I never thought of hunger — sure a night I never 

slept, 
But from sunset unto sunrise an untiring watch I 

kept ; 



THE DYING GIRL. 



Ill 



Though the fever fierce was on him did I ever, ever 

shrink ? 
*T was those eyes that watched him closely, 't was 

this hand that made his drink ; 
When his spotless soul departed, did I even then 

forsake ? 
Was not Mary closest to him on the nights we held 

his wake r 
Ah, my heart is very happy, when I think I proved my 

love 
For my own dear brother Willie, who is now a saint 

above ; 
But, I cannot wait for father ; mother, hasten, make 

rny bed — 
I will seek a little slumber when my short night 

prayers are said ; 
For I'm weary — very weary — my poor heart is quite 

opprest ; 
Winter days are cold and dreary, and I want both 

heat and rest. 



II.— THE WARNING, 



Mother, dear, I'm growing weaker, hour by hour and 

day by day, 
I have marked my strength declining — I will soon 

be called away. 



112 THE DYING GIRL. 

On last night I had a warning : Willie came in sleep to 

me, 
And his words were sweet as music, and his form was 

bright to see. 
On two shining wings supported, he gazed fondly in my 

eyes, 
While his little fingers pointed upward to the starry 

skies ; 
And he whispered — " Sister Mary, there's a place on 

high for thee, 
Where thy spirit shall be joyful, and for all eternity. 
'Twas our blessed Saviour sent me to this world of care 

and gloom, 
To prepare my darling sister for a life beyond the 

tomb." 
So he spoke, and when he left me, music, strange but 

sweet to hear — 
Music, not of earth, but heaven — filled my heart 

with joy and fear ; 
And I heard it when I waken'd, at the breaking of 

the day, 
Like the breezes of the summer, in the distance, 

dying away. 
So, I'll send for Father Connell, though I have not 

much to tell, 
For I always loved my father and my darling mother 

well ; 



THE DYING GIRL. 113 

Though I vexed poor Ulick often by my pettish little 

ways, 
When I knew I was the pleasure and the comfort of 

his days ; 
But I'd speak the word of kindness, to his arm I'd 

fondly cling, 
Till forgetting all, poor Ulick would be prouder than 

a king ; 
Still, I wish to see the Soggarth,* and to hear his 

words of love, 
Of the saints, and of the angels, in the glorious skies 

above. 



III.— CHRISTMAS EVE. 

Mother, dear, my heart is joyful, all my sins are 

wash'd away ; 
Father Connell, heaven save him ! gave me pardon 

full to-day ; 
And he told me to be trustful — that my soul had 

naught to fear, 
Though 't were called upon this moment in God's 

presence to appear ; 

* Soggarth— -Priest 



114 THE DUNG GIRL. 

So I'm quite resigned and joyful, though the hour is 

drawing nigh, 
When to all I love and cherish I must say a last 

good-bye. 
I would have ye come together, now, and sit beside my 

bed, 
For there's something I would mention, that this night 

I wish were said ; 
Now I see ye 're all about me,— darling mother ! do not 

weep, 
'T is Grod's-will that I should leave ye, that in death I 

soon shall sleep. 
Listen ! father, — listen ! mother, Ulick, Ellen, listen all ! 

To the last words which your Mary, whom ye loved so, 

will let fall. 
Ulick, dear ! your form is manly, and your heart is 

stout and true — 
I am giving my poor mother and my father up to you ; 

When their days for work are ended — when their race 

is nearly run — 
For the love you bear your Mary, guard and tend them 

like a son ! 
And when this your trouble's over — when the many 

cares of life 
Tell your heart to seek for solace in a young and loving 

wife, 



THE DYING GIRL. 115 

Promise her to whom you plighted long ago your word 

and faith, 
Ere you thought she would be taken from your side so 

soon by death, 
That if Heaven show no woman, my fond love ! more 

worthy thee, 
That my little sister, Ellen, your sweet, tender wife 

shall be. 
She is fairer far than I am, she'll be seventeen next 

Spring — 
Well I know how much of pleasure and of joy to you 

she'll bring! 
Closer to me, sister Ellen ! closer to me, Ulick mine ! 
Take this hand of Ellen's from me, press it fondly into 

thine ; 
Sure I know ye '11 not refuse me, this, the last request I 

crave ; 
. Sure ye would not make me wretched on the threshold 

of the grave . 
Now I'm weary — come and kiss me ; here's to all a 

fond good-night, — 
I suppose ye '11 watch a little by the Christmas taper's 

light. 
How I wish that I could waken, just to hear the 

neighbors pass 
On the pavement, by the window, to the early Christ- 
mas mass ! 



116 THE DYING GIRL. 



IV. -CHRISTMAS DAY. 



Mother, dear, the bells are ringing, and the neighbors 

soon will pass 
Just beneath my bed-room window, to the early Christ- 

mas mass ; 
Now I hear them — they are coming — don't you hear 

the tramp of feet, 

And the murmur of the voices in the little village 
street ? 

Yes, I hear them very plainly, and I mark the blaze of 
light 

On the walls of all the houses, from the bog-deal 
torches bright. 

If I had the strength to do it — but I'm all too weak, 
alas ! — 

I would even creep to chapel, to be present at the 
mass. 

On last Christmas twelvemonth, mother, you remem- 
ber, I was drest 

In that gown that Ulick gave me, that I ever loved the 

best ; 
We were out so very early, — not a sorrow had we 

then : 
I, the gayest of our maidens — he, the happiest of 

men. 



THE DYING GIRL. 117 

'T was the merriest Christmas surely ! our old cottage 

home that night, 
Looked so well, drest out with holly, by the yule-log's 

ruddy light ; 
We had music — we had dancing — we had songs and 

stories, too, — 
Never met within our dwelling such a joyous-hearted 

crew ! 
Till we burned the holy candle — till the bright, though 

wintry sun, 
Shone in full upon the casement, not a soul got tired 

of fun. 
What a change, my darling mother ! what a change in 

things to day ! 
Ere the Christmas days are over, I shall be but dust 

and clay ! 
Do you think that in the Chapel, they will miss me 

from my place ? 
Will some friends ask — " Where is Mary ?". when they 

see a stranger's face ? 
'Tis not that I 'd wish for grieving, when from this life 

I depart ; 
But I 'd like to be remembered by some faithful, honest 

heart. 
I was near forgetting, mother, but it is a wish of mine, 
When he calls, that you 'd keep Ulick with yourselves 

to-day to dine ; 



118 THE DYING GIRL. 

For there's something tells me, mother, that ere mid- 
night I shall die, 

And 1 5 d like to have ye near me, just to give the last 
good-bye ; 

And I 'd like to speak to Ulick about sister Ellen 
dear, 

With a word to you and father, bidding ye to be of 
cheer ; 

What is this ? — my sight is going, — Hasten, bring poor 
Ulick here ! 

I am sinking — I am dying, — hasten, hasten ! mother 
dear ! 



19 



ELLEN THE FAIR. 

) 
X 

The altar was decked on a May day, — before it, array'd 
j as a bride, 

: oung Ellen in beauty was standing, her heart's dear- 
est treasure beside, 

Her brow had the calm of the morning, her eyes had 
the brightness of spring — 

Her hair with its wealth of rich ringlets, was dark as 
the night spirit's wing ; 

Her voice had the sweetness of music, her words were 
not uttered, but sung — 

Her step was as light as the deer's when it bounds at 
the cry of its young ; 
er smile was a ray of the day star, a dazzling efful- 
gence of mirth : 

Her soul was as soft as the snow flake that melts in the 
bosom of earth ; 

The young men who stood by the altar, and manhood 
in glory was there, 

All envied the bridegroom the treasure his heart won 
in Ellen the Fair, 



/ 



120 ELLEN THE FAIR. 

The youth was as tall as a cedar, and health made her 

home on his cheek — 
His heart, with the fire of the Boman, nurs'd all the 

fond love of the Greek . 
By glen and by hill-side a hunter, where nature looks j 

wildest he trod, 
By sunlight or moonlight admiring, and tracing the 

wonders of God. 
His voice was as clear as a trumpet ; 'twas pleasi 

the deepest to him, 
To track the dun deer on the mountain, or rain-swollen 

" river to swim ; 
And his was the mind of the Poet, and his too were 

beauty and grace — 
An union of Hero and, Lover, a painter in rapture 

would trace ; 
The maidens who stood by the altar, and beauty in- 
carnate was there, 
Would gaze on his person and bearing, and envy young 

Ellen the Fair. 

In his home by the sweet river Shannon, they sit by a 

love-lighted hearth, 
With all that can yield them contentment, with all that 

gives pleasure and mirth ; \ , 

And night, noon and morning the whispers of hope by I 

their young hearts were heard, 



i 



< I 



ELLEN THE FAIR. 121 

As sweet as to childhood from Heaven down trilleth the 

song of the bird. 
Existence to them was as blissful as Eden to spirits 

above, 
Unclouded by even one sorrow, while Heaven denied 

them not love ; 
For she was to him all the world^ a solace, a joy, and 

delight — ■ 
Wherever she went he found sunshine, beyond that but 

sorrow and night ; 
And she followed him like his shadow, for grieving 

and sighing and care, 

op J 

If they were apart for a moment, came fleetly to Ellen 
the Fair. 

^Twas joy to young Ellen to see him when graceful he'd 

bend o'er his lyre, 
The descants of Freedom awaking in soul-touching 

numbers of fire ; 
For she had a heart for her sire-land, and her's was the 

white little hand 
Would gird him, did Erin require it, in haste, with the 

patriot's brand : 
For sung were each legend and ballad, with passion 

and deep feeling strong, — 
Love's longings and glory's aspirings forever were blent 

in his song : 



122 ELLEN THE FAIR. 

And low were his tones as a maiden's, when love was 

the theme that he sung, 
But loud as the ring of the tempest when Erin gave 

wrath to his tongue ; 
For his was the patriot spirit, to suffer, to do, and to 

dare — 
And his was the heart that could cherish a blossom, 

like Ellen the Fair. 

And quickly the summer departed, and fleetly the 

winter stole on ; 
The greenness and freshness and glory, of earth and of 

Heaven were gone. 
And over the brow of young Ellen, was flitting the 

shadow of care ; 
And fervent and deep to her Maker rose daily and 

nightly her prayer ; 
And over the brow of her laved one the same pensive, 

dark shadow stole, 
The gloom of an anxious emotion, that troubled the 

depths of his soul. 
He feared lest the breezes of Heaven, too rudely might 

visit her cheek ; — 
He spoke with the tongue of an angel, when she was 

desponding and weak ; 
He flitted forever about her, with deeper and tenderer 

care : — - 



EL LEX THE FAIR. 123 

Ah ! never could man cherish woman, as he cherish'd 
Ellen the Fair. 

And now unto Mary, the mother of Jesus, he bendeth 

in prayer, 
Imploring with fervor her aid for his own little Ellen 

the Faii\ 
When came on the hour of her trial, he ceased not to 

and to pray, 
Alone in the night-shaded chamber, unlit by one taper's 

faint ray. 
And e'en when they hailed him a father, though wildly 

his fond heart did stir, 
'Twas not with the pride of a parent — he thought the 

more fondly of her. 
And i. -a on the world, its young spirit 

fleeted a 
More brightly to blossom and bloom in the sun of God's 

ever bright clay ; — 
His brow wore no traces of sorrow, for innocence 

heavenward flown, 
He thought but on her whom he cherish'd, with love 

the sincerest, alone : 
The tears down his cheeks were fast falling, distracted 

and wild was his air ; 
Unresting, heart-troubled, and grieving, he prayed for 

his Ellen the Fair, 



124 ELLEN THE FAIR. 

Oh sorrow unequali'd in torture ! when fast speedeth 

on to the grave, 
Che one who on earth was our idol, to find we are 

powerless to save, — 
Let those who have known the bereavement of all that 

their hearts cherish'd dear — 
Let those who have seen their life's treasure lie starkly 

and cold on the bier — 
Imagine the depth of his anguish, the terrible grief of 

his mind, 
The dark crushing blow of misfortune, that left not 

one pleasure behind ; 
"When told by the tongue of experience, that ere a fleet 

minute went by, 
Young Ellen, the wife of his bosom, his own little 

Ellen would die ! 
He looked on the Leech when he spoke, with the tear- 

bediinn'd eye of despair, 
And fleet as an arrow flew into the presence of Ellen 

the Fair. 

Ah, wo ! she was placidly lying, but stirless and cold 
on her bed ; 

The hand that he caught at was marble : he looked on 
the face of the dead. 

And now 'mid the wrecks of his day dreams, and fanci- 
ful visions destroyed, 



ELLEN THE FAIR. 1.25 

He moved on the earth, that to him would be evermore 

dreary and void. 
His manner and gestures were frantic ; he'd laugh and 

he'd dance and he'd weep ; 
He'd clap his hands over her pillow, and shout, " Look 

at Ellen asleep !" 
Anon he would stretch down beside her, in words of no 

meaning to speak ; 
Uplifting the wealth of her tresses, and laying them 

again on her cheek : 
No lioness, tracked by the hunters, could watch o'er 

her cubs in her lair, 
More fondly, more fiercely, than he watched the corpse 

of young Ellen the Fair ! 

But ah ! when they came to remove her, with frenzy 
and fury he sprung 

To his feet, while with strength like a giant's, the 
bearers beneath him he flung, — 

For his was the lunatic's vigor, and his was the dan- 
gerous might, 

That comes unto men when the temple of reason is 
shattered outright. 

At last to the home of the mindless — the iron-bound 
building of stone — 

The angels of mercy and pity consigned him in dark- 
ness alone. 



126 ELLEN THE FAIR. 

The keepers who heard all his ravings, approached 

near his side with but fear ; 
The bursts of his anger were frightful, his bowlings 

palling to hear. 
Oh, alas ! for the too loving nature, crushed down by 

the weight of despair ; 
And alas ! for the rnind-stricken husband of sweet 

little Ellen the Fair. 

And now in the lone Seven Churches, the sweet river 

Shannon beside. 
The wild ululu* of the keenerf sounds shrill o'er the 

grave of the bride. 
The maidens of Connaught are weeping for her, the fair 

flower of the West — 
The lips of the aged are moving in prayer for her 

young spirit's rest ; 
Around her green grave they have planted bright 

flowers of every hue, 
Whose petals in spring time or summer, are fairest and 

freshest to view ; 
They blend with the fragrant sweet-briar, the laurel 

eternally green, 
The rose and the pale pensive lily, are sweetly com- 
mingled, I ween ; 

* Ululu, Loud bursts of grief. t Keener, Mourner. 



ELLEN THE FAIR. 127 

And while the sweet Shannon runs seaward, and stars 
deck the Heavens above, 
■ young and the laving of Connauglit will tend them 
. holiest love ; 
ok weeds will all be uprooted, and then will 
their soft lips in prayer 
mmend unto Heaven the mindless, and his little 
Ellen, the Fair. 

~.:een sunlight of reason should flash on his 
[ mind again ; 
If ever as erst he should move in the sphere of exist- 
ence with men, 
y God that his soul may not look through the thick 
: of tears on the past, 
But find, by the light of Religion, a sure, happy haven 

A*\d if ; by the grey Seven Churches, in sorrow he ever 

should ti 
To weep o'er the grave where low lieth the loved and 

the idolized dead, 
Pray God that the halcyon of peace may steal over his 

heart in the gloom ; 
Pray God that the spirit of Ellen may whisper him 

hope from the tomb ; 



128 THINGS AIN'T NOW AS THEY USED TO WAS. 

And when that his stay here is ended, pray Grod that 
his sad heart may rest 

In the grave by the lone Seven Churches, with her 
whom in life he loved best. 

Oh ! ye to whom life is a garden, uncheqnered, un- 
clouded by care, 

Pray Grod, for the blissful re -union of him and sweet 
Ellen the Fair. 



"THINQS AIN'T NOW AS THEY USED 

TO WAS." 

'Twas merry, 'twas merry in summer-time, 
In the joyous hours of my boyhood's prime, 
To sit in the depth of the greenwood shade, 
And list to the melody young birds made ; 
And mark the butter fly, tiny thing, 
Playing about on his sportive wing, 
While my ear was full of the business hum 
Of blithe bees talking of sweets to come ; 
And dear to my soul was the skylark's song, 
As it rang in the air the whole day long, 



THINGS AIN'T NOW AS THEY USED TO WAS. 12& 

When life was to ine as a flowery lawn, 

Where I sported and play'd like a gladsome fawn, 

For my step was light, and my heart was gay, 

And the world was ever a holiday : 

Ah, me ! 'tis changed, and I know no cause, 

But " things ain't now as they used to was," 

I mark not the stream that in beauty glides, 

I mark not the play of the ocean tides ; 

I seek not the hill-side tall and high, 

I tread not the valleys that 'neath it lie ; 

I seek not the paths of the devious wood, 

Plucking wild flowers in the solitude ; 

I heed not the rifle, I bend not the bow, 

I track not the panther through frost or snow • 

I look not with love upon Nature fair, 

My heart is burthen'd o'er-much with care : 

Gone are the joys of my early youth, 

I found them fiction arrayed like Truth ; 

They vanish'd, and left not a wreck behind, 

Like the hues of Noon, or the passing wind ; 

All, all are gone, and I know no cause 

Why u things ain't now as they used to was,' 7 

I wander no more in the realms of Thought, 
The fairy Ideal no longer is sought ; 



130 THINGS AIN'T NOW AS THEY USED TO WAS. 

Unheeded the waters of Castaly play, 

No wreath do I covet of laurel or hay ; 

The dream is over, the trumpet of fame 

May blow where it lists, there is naught in a name ; 

For soul-thoughts we utter, for oil we consume, 

Our guerdon's contempt, and we sleep in the tomb. 

Young Genius, evoke not the numbers of fire, 

That, slumbering, lie in the strings of your lyre ; 

The seedlings you scatter are lavished in vain, 

Your sickle but garners a harvest of pain ; 

" Dimes and dollars" go join the cry 

Of the myriads sweeping madly by ; 

" Dimes and dollars," and dust of gold, 

Hark to the cry of the young and old ; 

Rifle, and washer, and knife go buy, 

The modern Pactolus search and try ; 

Though your bright hope wither like prairie-grass, 

And Midas come home with the ears of an ass ; 

But shape not a thought that would rouse a slave, 

And utter no word that would fire the brave ; 

Though your harp -strings throb like cathedral chimes, 

They're lost in the Dollar's duet with Dimes ; 

The times are disjointed and worse — 't is poz 

That " things ain't now as they used to was." 



131 



NOW AND THEN, 



My spring task* is over, my labor is done, 
The flow'rs of my fancy are bright in the sun ; 
In sorrow are sleeping the chords of my lyre, 
They bound not as erst to the numbers of fire. 
The heart of the singer is hopeless and cold, 
once in the glad days of old ; 
As bright as a May-day, as light as the air, 
Life's sunshine around it, within it no care, 
My joys are all over, they've f: :e wind. 

And left not a wreck of what has been behind ; 
I sea le pages of nature's bright book — 

The mountain and valley, the fountain and brook, 
The hum of the bee and the bird's cheering song. 
Once heard with delight for a summer clay long ; 
Ta* rambles by meadow, by canewood and brake, 
The sport on the hill-side, the sail on the lake, 
The musings and visions entrancing i at, 

The glory of day-dawn, the stillness of night, 

* A lengthy poem. 



132 



NOW AND THEN. 



The boots of the sages, the magical lore- 
All, all that I cherish'd, the dearest before, 
Have lost their enchantment and look to mine eyes 
As things for the wealthy to cherish and prize. 
The mountain and valley are fair to the view, 
The roses are laden with fragrance and dew ; 
The rivers in music still merrily glide, 
To meet the broad breast of the dark heaving tide,- 
The lake is as lovely, the bird's song as sweet, 
The green fields as soft to the weary one's feet ; 
The day-dawn as lust'rous, the star-light as bright, 
The fair face of nature as radiant with light, 
But alas, in my sorrow, my sighing and care, 
I view them as things that a wretch cannot share, 
I know they are lovely and teeming with good, 
But, ah ! I can't prize as I once " used to could."* 



Ere sorrow so heavily placed on my heart 
The weight and the gloom that will never depart, 
The dark thunder-cloud that in ruin has burst, 
To kill the fair hopes that my young fancy nurs'd. 
The ceaseless aspirings and dreams of my youth, 
The fond love of Freedom and yearning for Truth, 



* "Used to could." A vulgarism used in the Southern States of Amer- 
ica, and in the dialect of Essex and other parts of Encrland for " could 
formerly." 



NOW AND TI 133 

The thirst after learning, the striving for Fame, 

The goal of content, and a time-honor'd name, 

The worship of Beauty, the glintings of Lore, 

That warms the cold earth with a fire from above, 

Are fled like the even-chased shadows of noon, 

The dead leaves of autumn, or clouds o'er the moon, 

Sun bright, evanescent, a moment they shone, 

I gazed and they vanished, all faded and gone. 

As well bid the snow of past seasons come back, 

And rest without change on the summer sun's track ; 

As well bid the rose that we plucked to decay, 

Exhale the old fragrance it gave on the spray ; 

Bid the stars cease to shine, check the course of the sun. 

Put a rein on old Time — on the Weariless one ; 

As well try to still the deep sea in its roar, 

As try the lost joys of my heart to restore ; 

There are some with the lost and the loved in the 

gnv 
There are some in green Erin, my home on the 

wave, 
And some — but they're gone, they are things of the 

Past, 
Too bright for existence, too blissful to last ; 
I may search, I may call, in my moments of pain, 
But 'tis echo will answer, they'll come not again ! 
Far better they suit me, the tempest and gloom, 
That whisper of sleep, of a sleep in the tomb ; 



134 AWAY j FAR AWAY. 

Happy thoughts, winsome dreams, fare ye well, fare ye 

well, 
In the breasts of the gay make a home where to 

dwell, 
Be mine the lone pathway, the deep solitude, 
For I cannot be gay as I once " used to could." 



AWAY, FAR AWAY. 

u Away, far away, o'er the wild ocean foam, 
In the mighty Far West go and seek for a home, 
Where proud trees are growing, where giant streams 

run, 
Where lakes broad as seas woo the smiles of the sun, 
Where freedom the cherished and loved of the Lord, 
Was won at the point of the bayonet and sword, 
Where each quiet homestead, with bright blazing 

hearth, 
Resounds with the light laugh of pleasure and mirth, 
W'here, free from the sad gloomy pressure of care, 
The workers and toilers have hearts light as air, 



AWAY, FAR AWAY. 135 

Where gold is the guerdon that freely is paid, 
The meanest mechanic that strives at his trade, 
Away then, away, and away merrily, 
To the land of the west, to the land of the free, 
A fair breeze is blowing, the ship's in the bay, 
A bright lot awaits you, away, far away !" 

Oh, thus whispered softly a voice in mine ear, 

One day as I lay, in the spring of the y£ar, 

Beside the smooth verge of the loud sounding main, 

A thinking on life, on its pleasure and pain, 

A thinking how poor men take many a wrong 

With scarce a complaint at the hands of the strong, 

A thinking how liberty, justice and right, 

Have bowed to the edicts and fetters of might. — 

I rose to the sound, in the tones of the voice, 

Some spell lay that bade my poor wrung heart rejoice, 

I thought on my sad home so cold and so bleak, 

I thought on my fond wife, so sickly and weak, 

I thought on the blight, on earth's fruits stricken dead, 

I pictured my brave boys a hung'ring for bread. 

I flew to my loved one, I spoke hopefully. 

Of the land of the west, of the land of the 
free, 

I I am willing,' she said, ' if the ship's in the 

bay, 
To sail with my darling, away, far away.' 



136 AWAY, FAR AWAY. 

Away, far away, with a favoring breeze, 

The stout ship we sailed in careered o'er the seas, 

We gazed from the deck on the land of our birth, 

The sweetest, the fairest, the saddest on earth, 

We wept as it faded away from the sight, 

That bright speck of green in the darkness of night, 

With morning we sought for the vision so fair, 

But alas ! the loved object no longer was there, 

To all our loved friends, to the true and the tried, 

In weal or in wo ever found at our side, 

To all the loved places we trod long ago, 

With hearts never heavy, with feet never slow, 

To all and to each with our hearts throbbing high. 

In anguish the sorest we sobbed a good bye. 

While away, far away, and away merrily, 

Our ship sought the far west, the land of the 
free, 

Her mighty bows breaking the waves into 
spray, 

In search of her haven away, far away. 

Away, far away, in her harbor she rides, 

She buffets no longer the winds and the tides, 

The wherries assisted by sail or by oar, 

Are bearing us fleetly and safely on shore, 

The light boats are stranded, we leap on the land, 

? Mid crowds of strange h cos in sadness we stand — 



AWAY, FAR AWAY. 137 

Still onward and forward we heard our fate cry, 
1 The toiler succeeds but the laggard must die.' 
We did strive and toil, getting up with the sun, 
Till plenty and peace with a free "home we won ; 
Our hearts are now hopeful and glad thro' the year, 
We plough and we sow, and we reap without fear, 
A round sum we've, gathered in silver and gold, 
To cheer us when haply once more we behold^ 
The land that we fled from with wailing lincl tears, 
The land but made dear by the absence of years. 

Oh, fondly we hope that again merrily, 

We will sail with the gale o'er the wide track™ 
less sea, 

To sing and to dance, to be happy and gay ? 

In Ireland, our sireland, away, far away, 



138 



THE FEAST OF THE POETS 



By Shannon's banks, in Edmund's hall, 
The young and brave held festival, 
The cups, with red wine brimming high, 
Were lifted upward to the sky 
And fast sped on in revelry 

The hours as though on wings ; 
And toasts were drank, and songs were sung, 
And Clairse^ch's* through the silence rung 
With music's soul-entrancing tongue 

Discoursing from the strings ; 
The guests were few, but blither set, 
At dance or feast were never met 

Than Edmund gathered there — 
Young Connal of the soul of flame, 
From Antrim of the " Causeway" came, 
Young Connal of the iron frame, 

Dark eje^ and raven hair, 
With Desmond of the silver lyre, 
And Cathal of the tongue of fire, 

* Clairseach's— old Irish harps with three strings. 



THE FEAST OF THE POETS. 139 

And Angus bold and prompt to ire, 

Well skill'd in sword and spear, 
With Donal from a Munster vale, 
A youthful sage of forehead pale, 
And Manus fierce as Northern gale, 

Stout hunter of the deer. 

'Twas Edmund's voice, 'twas Edmund's call — 
And silence deep stole over all 
Who sate within that festal hall 

While dark-eye 'd Connal sung, 
Contrasting sweetly in his lay 
The bravery of a by-gone day 
With our cow'rd fear of battle fray, 

And faith in pen and tongue ; 
Their souls drank in his every word, 
As by that merry festal board 
He sang this psean of the sword — - 

WE SMOTE WITH OUR SWORDS. 

" We smote with our swords, in the days of old, 

When fiercely our harpers sung ; 
And many a foeman, haughty and bold, 

A corpse in the dust we flung. 
We struck 'gainst the Dane, with Callaghan true, 

With Kennedy and Fingal, 



140 THE FEAST OF THE POETS. 

With Murkertagh brave and Brien Boru,* 

Who fell, as the brave should fall ! 
We struck with the steel, when Hugh O'Neill, 

With stout O'Donnel, the < Bed,' 
Made Saxon churls before them reel, 

When bared were their falchions dread ; 
We stood array 'd, with gun and with blade, 

In the year of Eighty-two, 
With sinew and bone, to strive for our own, 

Determined to die or to do ; 
And often we won back a wrested right, 

By the warlike front we wore, 
When we girt our loins for the deadly fight, 

In the glorious days of yore ! 
Then blood was up, and courage was high, 

Our flag to the breeze was flung, 
Our weapon— the sword — in the days gone by, 

But never the boastful tongue, 
Weak tongue ! 
We fought with the sword in the days gone by, 

But ne'er with the carping tongue. 

" The sword was the weapon of Greece and Rome, 

When Roman and Greek were free, 
The sentinel sure of the freeman's home 

And the land of Liberty, — 

t Brien Boru, Monarch of Ireland ; Callaghan, Kennedy, Fingal, Murk- 
ertach ; valiant chiefs who flourished about the same period. 



THE FEAST OF THE POETS. 141 

The prized of Wallace, and Bruce the bold, 

The prized of Hofer and Tell ; 
'Twas loved by Washington more than gold, 

And none knew its worth so well : 
'Twas loved of our own, by Emmet and Tone, 

And Edward, the Geraldine ; — 
An Irish brand, in an Irish hand, 

In front of an Irish line, 
Since this world's birth, not a land on earth, 

Was freed by the tongue alone ; 
Without the aid of the trenchant blade, 

In fetters for aye 'twould groan. 
The monarch and lord view the bright keen sword, 

With feelings of dire affright ! 
The friend of the brave, sure hope of the slave, 

Who draws in the cause of right ! 
The loved of the dead, whose courage was high, 

When flags on the wind were flung ; 
Who struck with the sword, in the days gone by, 

But ne'er with the boastful tongue. 
Weak tongue ! 
They fought with the sword in the days gone by, 

But ne'er with the earning tongue. 

" How long will we grieve o'er the days of old ! 

How long will we pine and sigh ? 
Are our arms less strong, are our hearts less bold 

Than those of the days gone by ? 



142 THE FEAST OF THE POETS. 

Will ye trust the men, of the tongue and pen, 

Of the boastful and windy word ? 
When the slave's best stay, let a world say nay, 

Was ever the well-edged sword 
Bid the South and North in their might come forth, 

Bid the East and the West arise ! 
By sword and by gun, may Freedom be won, 

But never by tears or sighs ; 
By the deadly wrong, ye have borne o'erlong, 

By Skull and by Skibbereen, 
Come forth prepared, with your keen swords bared 

Array 'd 'neath the flag of green, 
A torrent of wrath, on the foeman's path 

Burst down from your mountains high, 
And yours be the ban of God and of man, 

If ye make not the Saxon fly ; 
Yes ! battle like those whose courage was high, 

When flags to the wind were flung, 
Who fought with the sword in the days gone by, 

But ne'er with the boastful tongue, 
eak tongue ! 
They fought with the sword in the days gone by, 

But ne'er with the carping tongue. 

When Connal ceased, loud, Desmond cried — 
" The fire of Freedom has not died, 
We'll try again the mountain side, 



THE OF THE POETS. 143 

We'll try the spear again ! 
If we in union 3 

If we would only .3, 

By a : prize, 

On ; he skies, 

like men, 
I wl me, 

A lay 
This gloom hour ere the morning's prime 

In 
Though inhar] line, 

Ye may . .. somrades mine. 

Its creed, wel might divine, 

: lead ; 
And my hand has! : ..: mill, 

Since 1:. ach* shrill, 

On Donegal's 1 

In gladsome sum::. 
When Eva by in; id stray, 

As warm as June and fair as May 5 
The s )n away, 

My own betrothed bride. 
But "lit i m," brothers all. 

When vengeance, wrong, and glory call, 
No girlish tears should we let fail, 

* Cladrseach'g— old Irish harp? with three strings, 
f " Aileach" Hill, Donegal. 



144 THE FEAST OF THE POETS. 

The dead are thraldom free ! 
But for the living, who still keep, 
'Neath chains a mute inglorious sleep, 
The bravest of the brave may weep 

With untold misery ; 
Brothers, forgive my rambling long, 
'Twas caused by feeling deep and strong, 
In sooth ! my dull long promised song 

I fear you'll little prize, 
But pass the wine, while I essay, 
In this my earliest written lay 
To beacon slaves on Freedom's way, 
And make the bondsmen of to-day 

Like chainless spirits rise." 

THE WAY TO FREEDOM. 

The sense of right, the sense of might, 

The power of mind and sinew, 
The purpose true, to die or do, 

Ere foul wrong should continue, 
A bearing grand for fatherland, 

Keen sabres, if ye need 'em, 
With voice and pen of earnest men, 

Must clear the way to Freedom ! 
To glorious sun-bright Freedom ! 
Hurra ! hurra ! 



THE FEAST OF THE POETS. 145 

'Tis plain as day, 
The path that leads to Freedom. 

What boots our toil, by midnight oil, 
If we rise up despairing. 

Without a spell, the foe to fell. 

Who tramples now on Erin ; 
Of Roman bold, and Greek of old. 

The deathless scrolls, go read 'em — 
And tread ye then, like warrior men. 

The sun-bright path to Freedom. 
To Heaven-scaling Freedom ! 

s 

Hurra ! hurra ! 
'Tis plain as day, 
The path that leads to Freedom. 

Oh ! who would sigh, o'er da}'s gone by ? 

And craven-like weep o'er them ? 
When brighter far than sun or star, 
The Future shines before them ; 
We've chiefs as bold, as those of old, 
And just as true, God speed 'em — - 
With hands as strong to punish wrong, 
And clear the way to Freedom ! 
To glory-giving Freedom ! 
Hurra ! hurra ! 
'Tis plain as day, 
The path that leads to Freedom. 



146 THE FEAST OF THE POETS. 

For Innisfail, from hill and vale, 

March steadily and onward, » ^0^ 

As one combined, while on the wind, 

The green flag flutters sunward ; 
Good Fortune smiles, on serried file&, 
When gallant chieftains lead 'em — 
Wake drum and fife , an hour of strife 
May win an age of Freedom, 
Of dazzling sunlit Freedom ! 
Hurra ! hurra ! 
We know the way 
By which slaves move to Freedom. 

Then spake the host in accents bland, 
M Come, Desmond, lay in mine your hancL 
On gallant steed, with pike or brand, 
Not one would make a stouter stand 
For Erin dear, our Father-land, 

But by the stars above, 
The Tuneful Nine and Graces Three ? 
Arraign us will right speedily 

If we sing not of Love. 
Up, Donal ! of the pensive brow. 
Thy early days taught thee I trow, 
Some tale we'd gladly hearken now 

Of one you loved the best ; 



THE FEAST OF THE POETS. 147 

We heard you name her long ago, 
We've seen your eyes with tears o'erflow, 
Thou surely canst one song bestow 

On < Alice of the West." 5 
" 'Tis passing true," young Donal cried, 
" Full many a weary hour I've sighed, 
For her, my solace, joy and pride, 

llj pure, my matchless maid ; 
And still with fondest memory, 
That ne'er can fade, that ne'er can die, 
I'll give to her my latest sigh, 

Ere I am lowly laid. 
Although heart-troubled, yet I'll sing, 
Ah, would the task to me could bring 
One blossom of the by-gone spring 

I've seen so swiftly facie. 
Farewell awhile to tears and sighs, 
Ye brighter visions 'round me rise, 
I'll sing the song she most did prize, 
That sainted angel of the skies — 

My own, my matchless maid." 

SHULE AROON.* 

Come from the side of thy mother, 
Come to my home of love, 

* Shule. Aroon, anglice — " Come darling. '■ 



148 THE FEAST OF THE POETS. 

Come, if thy young heart can smother, 

Wishes to range or rove ; 
Come, love, with a step all lightness, 

Come with a brow all glee, 
Come to a fond heart whose brightness 

Shall ne'er know cloud for thee. 

Come, ere the fetter can bind you, 

Folly throws over all ! 
Come, ere the fleet moments find you 

Fashion's degraded thrall, 
Come, ere one failing can wither 

Thy soul's pure bloom away, 
Come from the world, come hither, 

Danger is in delay. 

Come from the dance's gay measure, 

Revel and masquerade, 
Come from the halls of false pleasure, 

Beauty should court the shade ; 
Come from the gay friends about thee, 

Faithful until they're tried, 
Come, for I'm lonely without thee, 

Come, love, and be my bride. 

On the banks of the sweet, sweet river, 
The gently gliding Lee, 



THE FEAST OF THE POETS, 149 

G-lorious and beautiful ever, 

Love has a home for thee ; 
Know you the Lee river golden ? 

Which as it flows to-day, 
Flow'd in the times so olden 

Seaward, away, away. 

Grand is the Shannon's stream leaping, 

Unto its bride the sea, 
Rapid the clear Suca sweeping, 

Onward by lawn and lea ; 
Forth like an arrow darteth, 

Blackwater's current free, 
Suir like a strong horse starteth ; 

Fairer than all — the Lee. 

Wild are the waters of Barrow, 

Wilder, oh Bann ! thy stream. 
Bright 'tween their banks so narrow, 

The Maine and Laune may gleam ; 
The Ena, than crystal clearer, 

May mirror a tow'r or tree, — 
But fairer than all, and dearer, 

The sweet, the gentle Lee. 

There, where the skylark loveth 
Ever to soar and sing, 



150 THE FEAST OF THE POETS. 

There, where incarnate, raoveth, 
Wreathed with flow'rs — the Spring ; 

There where kind Nature poureth 
Her gifts with hand so free, 

True love that ever soareth, 
Proffers a home to thee. 

Then come from the side of thy mother, 

Come to my home of love, 
Come if thy young heart can smother 

Wishes to range or rove ; 
Come, love, with a step all lightness, 

Come with a brow all glee, 
Come to a fond heart whose brightness 

Shall ne'er know cloud for thee. 



Sweet was the answer that she gave, 
'Twould make the veriest coward brave ; 
It made me think, it made me strive, 
Despite of rack, and jail, and gyve, 

To set the green land free ; 
My blood coursed through my veins like fire, 
My nerves were strung for deeds of ire, 
My soul glow'd with one wild desire — 

To die for Libertv ! 



THE FEAST OF THE POETS. 151 

Beside the Seven Churches grey, 
She touched her harp at close of day, 
And sang this sweet impassion r d lay, 
That in my memory alway 

" A thing of beauty" bides ; 
That angel voice I'll hear no more, 
The barque of my Hope glided o'er 
Unto the dark and unknown shore, 
Whose void none living may explore — 

The shore of voiceless tides. 
This song is all that Death did spare, 
Of Alice of the golden hair, 
Blithe Alice, winsome, young and fair, 

My pure, my gentle one ; 
You hear me sigh, you mark the tear 
That flows for her I cherish'd clear, 
'Twill flow for many a weary year, 

Ere my deep grief be done. 
Although with sadly fait 'ring tongue 
Too long to this sad theme I've hung, 
"With anguish ever, ever young, 
My darling's song must now be sung. 



Call not on Heaven above, Donal, 
To register thy vow, 



152 THE FEAST OF THE POETS. 

Though sweet to the soul is love, Donal, 

I will not hear thee now. 
My heart for my own green isle, Donal, 

Is all too full of care, 
For love, though free from all guile, Donal, 

To find an entrance there. 
As long as in fetters stand, Donal, 

The many 'neath the few — 
As long as a patriot's hand, Donal, 

Can't wave a sabre true — 
As long as that might is right, Donal, 

As long as the wretched pine, 
My bosom cannot be light, Donal, 

My heart cannot be thine. 
Then call not on Heaven above, Donal, 

To register thy vow, 
Though sweet to the soul is love, Donal, 

I will not hear thee now. 

If I were a man like thee, Donal, 

With tall and hardy frame, 
My suffering land should be, Donal, 

My first and noblest aim ; 
To woman I would not speak, Donal, 

My love with puling tone, 
If fetters were there to break, Donal, 

I'd even strike alone. 



THE FEAST OF THE POETS, 153 

He who would soar unto fame, Donal, 

Must wisdom's honey hive. 
He that would win a proud name, Donal, 

Early and late must strive ; 
Then speed with courage of soul, Donal, 

And forward look with glee 
Unto the glorious goal, Donal, 

The Future holds for thee. 
Then call on Heaven above, Donal, 

To register thy vow, 
For then I'll list to the love, Donal, 

I may not hearken now. 

The tears ran down young Donal's cheek, 
He sighed as though his heart would break. 
He did not move, he did not speak, 

When Manus young and bold, 
In verse that seem'd to spurn control, 
So full of fire, so full of soul, 

His loves and likings told ; 
His voice was like a trumpet clear. 
It struck as loudly on the ear, 
But yet it was such bliss to hear, 
His hearers drew more near and near, 
While with the deepest melody. 
He swept the lyre all potently, 
In praise of mountain and of sea 



154 THE FEAST OF THE POETS, 



" I love the mountain* rude and high, 

Its bare and barren majesty, 

And in its silent solitude 

I love to stand in musing mood, 

And bring, by fancy's magic power, 

Bright dreams to charm the passing hour, 

To fill the green and heathy glen, 

With hosts of stalwart fighting men, 

With banners flaunting, fair and free, 

Fit for a new Thermopylae, 

And in the dark and narrow pass, 

I place a bold Leonidas. 

With joy I mark the phantom fight, 

And hear the shouts for native right, 

And thus, until the shades of night, 

Proclaim Time's quick and restless flight, 

In fancy Freedom's war I see, 

And tread a land by slaves made free. 

I love to mark the billows rise, 
And fling then' spray into the skies— 
To mark the bold and crushing shock 
They deal upon the rugged rock, 

* See Histories of Greece and Rome, passim. 



THE FEAST OF THE POETS. 156 

Until, where'er its side they lave, 
Their pow'r is shown in many a cave, 
I match the rock to Tyranny, 
The waves to slaves, and man made free ; 
For know, 'twas unity like this, 
That Greece put forth at Salamis, 
And thus the Romans, side by side, 
From Cai xre her crest of pride ; 

And yet, where slaves are found, I ween, 
New Fabii m I a seen, 

Whose hearts though bold enough, I trow. 
See not the. fitting moment now, — 
Can find not yet the unity 
That made the Doric children free, 
That made the haughty Samnite fly 
The anger of a Roman eye 
Doubters ! ascend a mountain height. 
With healthy pulse and sinew light, 
Cowards ! upon the foaming tide 
Cast you your glances, far and wide. 
And, in the dark hill, say with me, 
c There's many a sure Thermopylae, 5 
And o'er each Bay's profound abyss— 
4 True hearts could make a Salamis. 5 " 



Hiatus, valde deflendns ! ! f 



156 THE FEAST OF THE POETS. 



To the after proceedings of the poets, assembled at the feast, we can 
give no clue, save what the following, the postscript of an intercepted 
rhyming epistle of Manus to a friend, written the evening after, can 
afford. From it we can gather that all drank " not wisely, but too well " 



" I kept them awake until rise of sun, 
Singing c jolly companions every one,' 
Digressing thence to the known close — - 
6 We won't go home in our own clothes,' 
With ' he is a right good fellow 

Which nobody can deny,' 
For which read — c we were mellow, 

And not a soul of us dry,' 
For there were racking pains and horrid, 
All day on every poet's forehead, 
Despite the keen air of the mountain, 
Despite of draughts at Soda's fountain, 
Despite of lavings in the river, 
The pain, the fell pain left them never, 
The couch they sought gave but unrest, 
Their slumber was but pain at best, 
From whence they wakened c all forlorn,' 
But ' wiser men the morrow morn.' "* 

* See Coleridge's Ancient Mariner, last verse. 



157 



BALLAD OF THE DYING CHILD, 



I cannot rest at night, mother. 

Sleep never comes to me, 
My heart is not as light, mother, 

As once it used to be ! 
I do not love the earth, mother, 

As I did long ago, 
When in pursuit of mirth, mother, 

My feet were never slow ; 
I feel as though a chain, mother, 

Were over sense and limb, 
And oft in tears, from pain, mother, 

My young eyes reel and swim ; 
It must be some decay, mother, 

That has a deadly power 
To waste my strength away, mother, 

And sink me every hour. 

I fear me in the Spring, mother, 
You'll miss me from your side. 



158 BALLAD OF THE DYING CHILD. 

When young birds on the wing, mother , 

Flit o'er the meadows wide — 
When early flow'rs in bloom, mother, 

Shine fair beneath the sky, 
You'll sorrow o'er the tomb, mother., 

Where my remains will lie ; — 
When corn-blades are green, mother, 

When every thing is glad, 
Thy tearful eye, I ween, mother, 

Will show thee lone and sad. 
The lark in joyful glee, mother, 

His little throat will ope — 
But 'twill not comfort thee, mother, 

Nor bid thee be of hope. 

In Summer, too, you'll sigh, mother, 

When over land and sea, 
The glorious sun shines high, mother, 

To pleasure all but thee ; 
And when you mark at eve, mother, 

The day-star's quick decline, 
? Twill bring thee — and thou'lt grieve, mother- 

The memory of mine. 
And when o'er tree and tow'r, mother, 

The moon sheds silver light, 
You'll think on each blest hour, mother, 

T spent with thee at night ; 



BALLAD OF THE DYING CHILD. 159 

When o'er the skies afar, mother, 

Your heavy eyes will roam, 
You'll guess beyond what star, mother, 

My spirit found a home, 

When Autumn winds in strife, mother, 

Exult o'er fallen leaf, 
You'll think on her whose life, mother, 

On earth was just as brief; 
You'll think, while tears like rain, mother, 

Upon your eye-balls burn— 
The leaves will grow again, mother, 

But she will ne'er return ; 
Each tree, bare to the root, mother, 

Will make your eyes run o'er, — - 
Thou'lt think on thy young shoot, mother. 

That rotted at the core ; 
When you thought into flow'r, mother, 

Each day 'twas bursting fast, 
'Twas with 'ring hour by hour, mother, 

To die away at last. 

And when the Winter's wind, mother, 

O'er earth begins to rave, 
You'll think with anguish'd mind, mother, 

XTpon my early grave, 



160 BALLAD OF THE DYING CHILD. 

When by the old fire-place, mother. 

Your aged limbs you warm, 
A cloud will cross your face, mother, 

You'll miss the well-loved form — 
But do not sigh and weep, mother, 

But pray on bended knee, 
And if the prayer be deep, mother, 

Thy God will comfort thee ; 
I'm weary now, — good-night, mother. 

I have some rest from pain, 
With morning's blessed light, mother, 

I'll talk with thee again. 



161 



WORKERS AND TOILERS, 



Hurra ! # hurra ! for the spider gay 

Who wakes with the rising sun. 
To toil 'till night, with the pale moon's light. 

Proclaims that his day's work's done ; 
Though a year may flee ere his keen eye see, 

His work to a close draw nigh, 
Still he weaves the woof of his cobweb roof— 
His snare for the buzzing fly. 

Then hurra, hurra for the spider gay, 

The spinner in hut and hall, 
The preacher grave to the sleeping slave 
That will not a working fall. 

For the worm, hurra ! when he makes essay 

To cliinb up a lofty wail, 
Who knows no fear though his slow career 

Is checked by many a fall ; 
On the wall again, with toil and with pain, 

His crawling form he'll cast, 

* Hurra ! pronounced in Ireland by many — "hur-rar." 



162 WORKERS AND TOILERS. 

Boldly to climb for a weary time 
'Till its top be gain'd at last. 

Hurra ! for the worm of the crawling form, 
Who preaches to man's dull race — 
u He that would climb to a height sublime 
Should not grow faint at the base." 

For the wing, hurra ! that night and day 

The bold bird of passage plies, 
When he speeds afar o'er the tempest's war, 

And the gloom of the wintry skies ; 
On, on, and away, o'er the ocean spray, 

O'er many a league of land, 
He speeds his flight with a pinion light 
To a lone and distant strand. 

For the bird, hurra ! who flees far away 

'Neath the vault of the Heaven's blue, 
Would that the soul of man to its goal 
Would speed with a flight as true. 



163 



TO MY LITTLE DAUGHTER ALICE. 



Oh ! thou winsome little Fairy, 

Oh ! thou balm for all my care ! 
With thy motions light and any, 

And thy beauty fresh and fair ; 
When my heart is sorrow-laden, 

When my mind is thought-opprest, 
Shines thy smile to make an Aiclenn, 

Where my spirit takes sweet rest ; 
With thy bursts of merry laughter, 

And thy lute-like little voice 
Lighting up the dim hereafter 

'Till I cheer me and rejoice, 
Oh ! thou gentle little being, 

Oh ! thou pet lamb of the fold ! 
All entranced, the sense of seeing 

Thy bright shape would ever hold. 
Diamond-decked, and in a palace, 

I would weep in my despair 
If my gentle little Alice, 

My heart's treasure were not there ; 



164 TO MY LITTLE DAUGHTER ALICE. 

Not a hope would cheer me pining, 

Not a pleasure could I share, 
If I missed her bright eyes shining 

Through her wealth of golden hair ; 
And her lightsome figure gliding 

Like a ted upon the wing 
When its song sounds like a chiding 

Of the tardy step of Spring ; 
Oh ! my winsome little Fairy, 

Sweetest balm for all my care, 
With thy motions light and airy, 

And thy beauty fresh and fair. 

Oh ! thou wilful little beauty ! 

Sweet dispenser of home bliss, 
E'en when truant from thy duty — 

At cross purposes I wis ! 
Words of counsel never heeding 

Or the fable of a whip, 
Trusting to the special pleading 

Of the proffered little lip ; 
Out of place and out of season 

What a chaos thou can'st make, 
Martyr to some fancied treason, 

Or some non-existent ache ; 
Yet we cannot blame or chide thee 

For we'd rather much approve, 



TO MY LITTLE DAUGHTER ALICE. 165 

'Tis such joy to sit beside thee 

And to win thy heart to love. 
If by cruel death were riven 

Of thy life, the fragile ties, 
Though one angel more in Heaven 

"Would look on us from the skies ; 
To thy sire and to thy mother, 

Earth would be a desert place, 
Never blest by such another — 

Soft and beauteous little face ; 
But we'll watch thee, and we'll mind thee, 

With a fond love day and night 
Lest the cruel spoiler find thee, 

Lest he take thee from our sight. 
Oh ! thou winsome little Fairy, 

Sweetest balm for all my care, 
With thy motions light and airy, 

And thy beauty fresh and fair. 



166 



WORDS OF CHEER FOR MEN OF GENIUS. 



'And after all,' continued Fleming, 'perhaps the greatest lessons 
which the lives of literary men teach us is told in a single word : 
1 Wait ! ; Every man must patiently bide his time. He must wait.' 

Longfellow's 'Hyperion.' 

'All the newspapers, all the tongues of to-day, will of course at first 
defame what is noble ; but you who hold not of to-day, not of the times, 
but of the Everlasting, are to stand for it ; and the highest compliment 
man ever receives from Heaven is the sending to him its disguised and 
discredited angels.' 

Emerson's ' Lectures on the Times/ 



Though the venal press deride ye, 

Though the senseless herd defame, 
Ay, though justice be denied ye, 

And earth's curses load your name ; 
Though your labors bring but sorrow, 

And your love but yield you hate, 
Ye are toiling for a morrow, 

And your watch-word must be c Wait V 



Ye shall stand ; for that you're seeking 
Is undying as the soul, 



WORDS OF CHEER FOR MEN OF GENIUS. 167 

And its light, from Heaven breaking, 

Points to heaven as its goal. 
All of Slavery shall perish, 

Ever shifting as the sand ; 
But the Freedom-love ye cherish 

Makes immortals — ye shall stand ! 



Sow the seed of wisdom holy 

In the hearts of old and young ; 
To that task devoting solely 

All the might of pen and tongue ; 
On no idle phantom wasting 

Strength and power we sorely need ; 
Cling unto the Everlasting — - 

Scatter, broad-cast, Freedom's seed 

IV, 

Though to all your toil incessant 

Of the muscle and the mind, 
Ye shall feel and find the Present 

In its sluggish dullness blind ; 
In the Future shall the story 

Sung at ev'ry happy hearth. 
Tell how for man's lasting glory 

Heaven's angels toiled on earth, 



168 



PHANTOMS. 



Unrest in the night time 

And trouble all day, 
This heart has some feeling 

'T would fain chase away ; 
A shadow of something 

Not quite undefined, 
That vexes, yet pleases 

My once placid mind ; 
'Tis with me ! 'tis round me, 

Wherever I rove ! 
Do tell me, dear Mary, 

If this can be love ? 

In sleep I see dark eyes 

Around my couch shine, 
I note the same glances 

Of softness in thine ! 
I seem to touch tresses 

Of dark wavy hair, 
Just braided as thine are, 

O'er forehead as fair ; 



PHANTOMS, 169 



A form fair as thine too, 
Before me will move ! 

What can it mean, Mary ? 
Oh ! say, is it Love ? 

I hear the soft music 

Of songs that you sing ! 
I see the same places 

We loved so last Spring ! 
A harp greets my vision, 

I hear its soft tone, 
Its fashion, its cadence, 

Are just like thine own ! 
I feel a hand like yours, 

It wears the same glove ! 
What is it, dear Mary ? 

Oh ! say, is it Love ? 



170 



SIREN, SING 



TO JENNY LIND. 



Siren, sing, and I will borrow, 

From the magic of thy voice, 
Spells to chase away the sorrow 

That forbids me to rejoice ; 
A sad wreck upon Life's billow, 

Though from day to day I'm thrown, 
With unrest the only pillow 

My sad heart can call its own ; 
Yet that voice in its completeness, 

Soft as play of seraph's wing, 
Brings me back with all their sweetness 

Days of childhood — Siren, sing. 

Siren, sing, and I will harken 
From the night of my distress, 

Though the clouds the deeper darken 
On my sad path, — pilotless 



SIREN, SING. 171 



I will tread the halls of Eden, 

I will join their starry mirth, 
When the " Nightingale of Sweden" 

Lifts me upward from the earth ; 
Though the after grief be deeper, 

Though more keenly it may sting, 
Be it thine to give the weeper 

Long-lost pleasure — Siren, sing. 

Siren, sing, my soul's uplifted 

Like an essence pure and bright, 
By thy tones, thou Heaven-gifted — 

Herald of all sweet delight ; 
I have passed Death's gloomy portal, 

I have lost the sense of care, 
Like a silver-winged immortal, 

Now I cleave the upper air ; 
And my soul with bliss is laden, 

As with honied sweets, the Spring ; 
Angel Nightingale of Sweden ! 

Sense-enthralling Siren, sing ! 



172 



"HOME ." 



Oh ! where is the home like niy own home, my sweet 

home ? 
For painter, for poet, for dreamer a meet home ! 
Before it the wild waves of ocean are flowing — 
Beside it the proud forest giants are growing — 
Behind it the tall hills, beneath it the river, 
That bubbles its melody skyward for ever — 
There, there in the days of my childhood, light hearted, 
From pleasm-e to pleasure I merrily darted ; 
With boldness I breasted the steep of the mountain — 
With gladness I drank of the gush of the fountain ; 
I followed the brisk bee, the light-hearted hummer, 
Through all the bright roses and flow'rets of summer, 
With laughter, all lightness, I'd capture the rover, 
Then homewarcPs I'd bound when the day's sport was 

over ; 
Into the old parlor — my mother's name naming, 
All wildly I'd enter, the promised kiss claiming ; 
While fondly I thought, for my young heart was merry, 
Nq home was so sweet as my own home in Kerry. 



HOME. 173 

When youth came — on books and the bright lore they 

squander, 
I taught my young fancy all deeply to ponder, 
'Till stored in my brain lay full many a garland — 
The mind flow'rs of sages from near-land and far-land ; 
I read of old Koine and her valor ; — the story, 
I read of fair Greece in the pride of her glory ; 
In fancy I fought with the gallant Crusader ; 
With Godfrey, or Tancred, or " Lion Heart 55 leader ; 
I looked with delight on each beautiful feature 
That God has bestowed on the fair face of Nature ; 
The mountain and valley, strong oak and weak willow, 
The calm glassy lake, and the teinpest-lash'd billow ! 
I 5 ve heard with mix 5 d feelings of pleasure and wonder, 
The note of the bird and the roll of the thunder ; 
And hourly I've gazed with my young eyes love-laden, 
Upon the fail* shape of each gay bounding maiden — 
'Till over my soul broke a stream of strange feeling, 
And then came of song, the first sudden revealing — 
Oh ! light was my step, and my young heart was 

merry, 
When wooing the muse in my own home in Kerry. 

Now a man — with the morn I rise from my pillow, 
To breathe the cool air as it comes o'er the billow, 
I still court the muse with a patience untiring, 
I teach my young soul to be always aspiring ; 



174 HOME. 

Still hoping ere time makes my sable hair hoary, 
To win a proud name, and live honor 'd in story ; 
I love with a truth that's unshaken — my sireland — 
The gem of the ocean — ray own darling Ireland ! 
With joy in her cause to the death I would labor, 
With all my mind's strength, or the strength of a 

sabre ; 
Through darkness and danger, through thraldom and 

sorrow, 
My soul sees the dawn of fair Liberty's morrow — 
How many the signs ! how my heart loves to read e'm, 
That augur — and tell of the advent of Freedom — 
Uplifted, bright gleaming, the swords of the brave are, 
And manhood and courage come back to the slave are, 
Oh ! deep is my joy, in my home by the wild wood, 
Sweet home of my manhood, my boyhood and child- 
hood, 
With hope for a future unclouded by sadness, 
The hours fly on wings, and each one brings me glad- 
ness ; 
With kind friends in love -bonds all closely united, 
How gay is my hearth when the wood fire is lighted ! 
Oh ! deep is my joy ! with a young heart that's merry, 
I court the coy muse in my own home in Kerry. 



175 



SONG. 



My own home, my own home, 

My cottage by the sea, 
Why did I leave my' own home, 

A rover gay and free ? 
To sigh both night and morning, 

In sadden'd mood to rove 
In quest of that strange marvel — 
A never changing Love ; 

My own home, my own home. 

My cottage by the sea, 
Why did I leave my own home 
A rover gay and free ? 

Why did I look on Ellen 

Whose heart can hourly range, 
Nay, twenty times a minute 

Just for the love of change ; 
One moment all I wish her, 

The next as false as fan, 
A moment blest with Eden — 

A week bent down with care ; 



176 SONG. 

, My own home, my own home 7 
My cottage by the sea, 
Why did I leave my own home 
A rover gay and free ? 

If she would be but constant, 

If she would be but kind, 
Like my deep fond heart worship 

No love on earth she'd find ; 
But ah, I cannot chain her 

A moment to one spot, 
She heeds not Love's recital, 
She's there and she is not ; 

My own home, my own home 7 

My cottage by the sea, 
Why did I leave my own home 
A rover gay and free ? 



177 



MY CHILD. 



Onward, onward, fleetly rushing, like a river to the 

sea, 
Hope-illumined, rainbow-color 'd speed the summer 

hours with me, 
Flowers of joy around me springing, passing beautiful 

as May, 
Thought-engrossing, soul-enthralling, woo my vision 

night and day. 
Whence this wondrous, wondrous magic, charming sense 

and chaining mind, 
Whisp'ring to my heart like music — sweetest music on 

the wind ? 
Magic, born not of the summer, born not of the beau- 
teous spring, 
Sweetest essence all completeness, soft as play of seraph's 

wing. 
Sleep, sleep on, my infant daughter, Alice of the angel 

brow, 
I am watching by thy pillow, deep and sweetly slumber 

now, 



178 MY CHILD. 

Thine the power, and thine the magic, that has steeped 

my soul in bliss, 
With thy wordless infant music and the Hybla of thy kiss : 
And the mind that danceth ever in the lightning of 

thine eyes, 
Blue as Heaven, when no cloudlet flings its shadow o'er 

the skies. 
Sleep, sleep on, my infant daughter, Alice of the angel 

brow, 
I am watching by thy pillow, Deep and sweetly slumber 

now. 

With a joy akin to Heaven, future-ward I look afar, — 
When thy little mind, unfolding, shall grow lustrous as 

a star, 
I, myself, will be thy teacher, " love thy God and serve 

thy kind," 
Shall be, love, the earliest lesson I will stamp upon thy 

mind. 
Through the varied walks of nature thou shalt roam, 

my child, with me, 
By the mountain and the river, and the world-embracing 

sea, 
By the truest lore, progressive, I will raise thy spirits' 

eyes, 
From the little mountain daisy, upward to the starry 

skies. 



MY CHILD. 179 

Thou shalt be a zealous worker, not for glory, not for 

fame, 
What to thee were man's approval, if thy conscience 

should but blame, 
Thou shalt know the thoughts of sages, thou shalt read 

the poet's song, 
Thou shalt mingle in the battle that right wages against 

wrong, 
And all countries under Heaven thou shalt hold of little 

worth, 
When compared with holy Ireland, the dear land that 

gave you birth, 
Thou shalt kneel before the altar of thy sire's time- 
honor 'd faith, 
And drink in its holy teachings till the moment of thy 

death. 
Sleep, sleep on, my infant daughter, Alice of the angel 

brow, 
I am watching by thy pillow, deep and sweetly slumber 

now. 

Thou shalt look upon thy mother with the tenderest of 

love, 
High and pure as that the angels feel and show in skies 

above 
By her form forever flitting, thou shalt bid her heart 

rejoice, 



180 MY CHILD. 

With thine earnest, fond caresses and the music of thy 

voice, 
Thou shalt make her thy companion, all your hopes and 

all your fears, 
You shall ever fondly whisper in her love-awaken'd 

ears, 
All the little household duties thou shalt learn by her 

dear side, 
That thy heart may keep the lesson when a fond mate 

calls thee bride. 
With thy ringing silver laughter thou shalt wake her 

heart to mirth, 
'Till she hail thee as the angel, joy-dispenser of our 

hearth. 
Thou shalt lay thy silken tresses, when she grieves, 

upon her cheek, 
While thy sweet mouth proffers kisses with each sad 

word she may speak. 
To thy sire, as to thy mother, thou shalt be a hope and 

j°y. 

Shining ever with a lustre, time can fade not or de- 
stroy. 

Sleep, then sleep, my infant daughter, Alice of the 
angel brow, 

I am watching by thy pillow, deep and sweetly slumber 
now. 



181 



AILEEN AROON.* 



Gtirl of the forehead fair, 

Aileen, aroon ! 
Girl of the raven hair, 

Aileen, aroon ! 
Q-irl of the laughing eye, 
Blue as the cloudless sky, 
For thee I pine and sigh, 

Aileen, aroon. 

Girl of the winning tongue, 

Aileen, aroon ! 
Flower of our maidens young, 

Aileen, aroon ! 
Sad was our parting day, 
Fast flowed my tears away, 
Cold was my heart as clay, 

Aileen, aroon. 

* Aileen, aroon — pronounced Ileen a roon — Ellen, darling, Anglice, 



182 AILEEN AROON. 

When o'er the heaving sea, 

Aileen, aroon ! 
Sailed the ship fast and free, 

Aileen, aroon ! 

Wailing, as women wail, 

I watched her snowy sail 

Bend in the rising gale, 

Aileen, aroon. 

I watched her course afar, 

Aileen, aroon ! 
Till rose the evening star, 

Aileen, aroon ! 
Then fell the shades of night, 
Wrapping all from my sight 
Save the stars' pensive light, 
Aileen, aroon. 

Stranger to grief is sleep, 

Aileen, aroon ! 
What could I do but weep ? 

Aileen, aroon ! 
Worlds would tempt in vain, 
Me, to live through again 
That night of bitter pain, 
Aileen, aroon. 



AILEEN AROON. 183 

Oh ! but my step is weak, 

Aileen, aroon ! 
Wan and pale is my cheek, 

Aileen, aroon 1 
Come o'er the ocean tide, 
No more to leave my side, 
Come, my betrothed bride, 

Aileen, aroon, 

Come, ere the grave will close, 

Aileen, aroon ! 
O'er me and all my woes, 

Aileen, aroon ! 
Come with the love of old, 
True as is tested gold, 
Pet lamb of all the fold, 

Aileen. aroon. 

By the strand of the sea, 

Aileen, aroon ! 
Still I'll keep watch for thee, 

Aileen, aroon ! 
There with fond love I'll hie, 
Looking with tearful eye 
For thee until I die, 

Aileen, aroon. 



184 



" MINNIE.' 5 



Aid me, sisters nine, 

While my hand I'm flinging 
O'er the lyre divine, 

Minnie's beauty singing ; 
Weave for me to-night 

Fancies fine and glowing, 
In a measure light, 

Free and swiftly flowing : 
Minnie claims a lay, 

Love's own soul revealing — 
Cold were they as clay, 

Dead to poet's feeling, 
Who could shun the task 

Tenderly that woos them ; 
When such bright eyes ask, 

Who could dare refuse them ? 

Chorus. Minnie, fair and young, 

Would — oh, would to heaven 
That an angel's tongue 
Unto me were given, 



MINNIE 185 

I would paint thy face 
As it looks this minute — 
Truth, and Love, and Grace 
Making sunshine in it. 

Of thy form and soul, 

Ev'ry feature single, 
Into one bright whole 

I would sweetly mingle : 
Brightly glancing eyes, 

Cheeks of bloom unfaded— 
Brow, like moonlit skies, 

By no clouding shaded — - 
Pure heart beating light, 

Tired of goodness never — - 
Mind, where Genius bright 

Plays and sparkles ever — ■ 
All should blended be, 

Mind, and heart, and feature, 
By a pencil free, 

Bold, yet true to nature, 

Chorus, Minnie, fair and young, &e\ 

Once, when Care would lower 

O'er the soul of gladness, 
Ruby wine had power 

To drown all its sadness ; 



186 MINNIE. 

To its draught I flew, 

Sure from thence to borrow 
Joys, though fleeting, true, 

To make bright the morrow — 
Now with saddened heart, 

Where no lamps are shining, 
From the gay apart, 

I sit sadly pining ; — 
'Tis for thee I pine, 

On the earth low kneeling, 
To that heart of thine, 

Shrine of love and feeling. 

Chorus. Minnie, fair and young, &c. 



187 



WINTER. 



The fair flowers are faded, 

The brightness and glory 
Of Summer is shaded 

By Winter the hoary : 
The white snow is falling, 

The night winds are sighing, 
The rivers are brawling, 

The dead leaves are flying, 
The waves of the ocean, 

By hurricane riven, 
With wildest commotion 

Are lifted tow'ards heaven ; 
The raindrops are plashing, 

The pine trees are bending, 
The blue lightnings flashing 

The dun clouds are rending ; 
The sea-birds are screaming, 

The loved and the lover 
Are thinking, half dreaming — 

Are summer days over ? 



188 WINTER. 

The traveller weary 

His lone way is wending, 
O'er moorland so dreary, 

His thoughts homeward sending. 
No star brightly shining 

To cheer or to guide him, 
When daylight, declining, 

Brings darkness beside him ; 
Nor moonlight or starlight 

To cheer his heart, mourning, 
He pines for the far light 

Within his home burning ; 
He quickens his paces, 

Through snowdrifts bewildering, 
He seeks the embraces 

Of loved wife and children. 
A mountain's tall summit ! 

His energies rally, 
Fond love will o'ercome it, — 

His home's in the valley. 

He breasts the hill lightly, 
His loved home is near him, 

That taper, how brightly 
It blazes to cheer him. 

How kindly they'll greet him, 
With love-lighted faces, 



WINTER. 189 



For kisses entreat him, 

His New England Graces ! 
His hopes for hereafter, 

Made surer and brighter 
By silver-toned laughter, 

Than fay music lighter. 
His heart is high swelling. 

His sorrows are over, 
He enters his dwelling, 

Joy, joy to the rover. 
For him, the late comer, 

Rough weather or vernal, 
True love makes a summer 

As true as eternal. 



190 



SUMMER. 



Unclouded by shadow, 

The sun shines from Heaven, 
O'er hill-top and meadow 

From morning till even ; 
The cornblades are springing, 

The bright streams are rushing, 
The young birds are. singing, 

Spring flowers are in flushing, 
The moonlight and sunlight 

Their bright beauties proving, 
Seem now but as one light 

To young hearts and loving. 



Up, up from your pillow, 

Of weak hearts thou weakest, 

And find by the billow 

The health that thou seekest ! 



SUMMER. 191 



There wander a rover, 

And thy cheek of whiteness 
Ere long will recover 

Lost freshness and brightness ; 
Thy mien will be airy, 

The mother that bore thee 
Will wonder what fairy 

Her bright wand waved o'er thee. 

in. 

Away, and view nature 

While yet she discloses 
Her face, with each feature 

Bedecked with bright roses- 
Old Earth is a Maying, 

She does it so seldom, 
'Twere a pity to stay in 

And flout the poor beldam ; 
Her green garb arrayed in, 

She panteth with pleasure — 
Up, young man and maiden, 

Tread with her a measure. 

IV. 

Out, out ere the hoary, 
Cold winter bids perish, 



192 SUMMER. 

The greenness and glory 

Of all we most cherish ; 
Out, out all together 

With laughter clear sounding, 
Away o'er the heather 

With light step run bounding ; 
Let care and let sadness 

Be from your hearts driven — 
There's joy and there's gladness 

Forever in Heaven ! 



193 



GO, FALSE ONE, I'LL NEVER UPBRAID 
THEE. 

Go, false one, I'll never upbraid thee 

For hopes thou hast laid in the dust, 
I leave it to Heaven that made thee 
To punish as Heaven thinks just ; 
For joys that you cruelly blighted, 

For eyes with the saddest tears wet, 
For love that you scoffed at and slighted — ■ 
A Love that can never forget ; 

But go, I will never upbraid thee 

For hopes thou hast cast in the dust, 
I leave it to Heaven that made thee 
To punish as Heaven thinks just. 

My bright airy castles have crumbled, 

I deem'd they were based on the true, 
The pride of my youth has been humbled, 

And sorrow of sorrows — by you ! 
A gloom on my pathway for ever, 

The star of my fondest hope set — 
The thread of existence may sever, 

But ah ! I can never forget ; 



194 THE GOLDEN RING. 

Then go, I will never upbraid thee 
For hopes thou hast cast in the dust, 

I leave it to Heaven that made thee 
To punish as Heaven thinks just. 



THE GOLDEN KING. 

Oh happy day ! oh blissful hour I 
Oh garden fair, oh lovely bower I 
Oh silent moon that shone above 
The earnest face of my fond love, 
When first he breath'd the tender vow 
That makes my heart so happy now, 
And placed where it shall ever cling 
Upon my hand a golden ring. 

Thou little golden circlet bright I 
I'll treasure thee with fond delight ; 
As thou dost hem this finger round. 
The donor in my love is wound ; 
As in thy mould no end we see, 
Our love shall just as perfect be, 
As true when tried by Time's fleet wing 
As thy pure ore, my golden Ring. 



195 



THOSE EYES SO BKIGHTLY GLANCING. 

Those eyes so brightly glancing. 
That fairy form entrancing, 

Come weal or wo, 

Where e 5 er I go, 
Have set my heart a dancing ; 
Where e'er my steps are wending, 
Thy form is still attending, 

Of angel mien, 

By fancy seen, 
Love glances on me bending, 

In vain would I endeavor 
So sweet a charm to sever— 

Of roses fair 

The links I wear, 
And cling they shall forever ; 
The doubting heart may ponder ! 
The cold heart wane and wander, 

But hearts of Truth, 

In Age, as Youth, 
But hourly love the fonder. 



196 COME LET OUR HEARTS, &C. 

And while on me thou'rt smiling 
The heart from out me wileing, 

Through chance or change 

I'll never range 
From thy most sweet beguiling ; 
Those eyes so brightly glancing, 
That fairy form entrancing ! 

Come weal or wo, 

Where e'er I go, 
Have set my heart a dancing. 



COME LET OUR HEARTS, &c. 

Come let our hearts with joy run o'er, 

Let all our unkind strife be ended, 
And let our thoughts for evermore, 

Through chance and change be fondly blended ; 
And that Love's bond may always bind, 

We'll view each other's faults with blindness ; 
And in our gentle friendship find 

A haven from the world's unkindness. 



COME LET OUR HEARTS, &C. 197 

Why should we seek a fancied care, 

When life casts all its worst before us ? 
Why teach our brows dark hues to wear, 

When Heaven itself frowns darkly o'er us ? 
Oh ! let us rather try to smile, 

Though strangers long our hearts to lightness — 
The turbid stream men still revile, 

While laughing wells are prized for brightness ! 

Of holy thoughts, a chain we'll weave, 

Whose giant strength may aye be trusted — 
Whose links from time can ne'er receive 

One stain would leave their splendor rusted ; 
And when thy faith in time I prove, 

I'll say " in need all truth I found her ;" 
As sailors praise the barque they love, 

W T hen adverse storms blow fiercely round her, 



198 



THE BRIGHT DREAM IS OVER. 



The bright dream is over, 

The hope is departed, 
Thou, thou art the rover 

And I the true-hearted : 
Th3 lone one, the slighted, 

The coldly deserted, 
The weak flow'ret blighted, 

Its false sun departed. 

Why, why did I love thee, 

So truly, so madly ? 
Yon Heaven above thee 

I'd leave for thee gladly ! 
Such truth seem'd about thee, 

Such love for me only, 
The green earth without thee 

Were desert and lonely. 

To earth have been shaken 
The fond hopes I nourished, 

By cruel fate taken, 

When brightly they flourished ; 



THE BRIGHT DREAM IS OVER. 199 

But vain is my plaining, 

The sad words are spoken ! 
By thee the remaining 

Love links have been broken. 

In gloom and in sorrow 

Will cease not — ah, never ! — * 
From morrow to morrow 

My days will flee ever ; 
But go ! — it is over, 

The hope is departed — 
Thou, thou art the rover, 

And I the true-hearted. 



200 



SONG OF THE EJECTED TENANT. 



I leave thee on the morrow, my old accustomed horns, 
In sadness and in sorrow the hollow world to roam, 
Too old to be a ranger, with heart too full of pride 
To crouch unto the stranger whom I have oft defied. 
'Tis hard links should be riven that time and friend- 
ship wove, 
'Tis hard power should be given to hearts that know 

not love, 
'Tis hard when death is near me with certain step, 

though slow — 
When nought is left to cheer me, 'tis hard from home 
to go. 

I leave the chimney corner, the old familiar chair, 
To lay before the scorner my aged bosom bare, 
To stand at every dwelling, to catch the rich man's eye, 
And with a heart high swelling, for some small pittance 

sigh. 
My hope of joy is broken, my happiness is o'er, 
The words of fate are spoken — u beg thou for ever- 
more." 



SONG OF THE EJECTED TENANT. 201 

Would that my life were over, my weary life of pain ! 
Would that the green grave's cover my aged form 
might gain ! 

With eye and heart delighted, my only child beside, 
I heard her young vow plighted — I saw her made a "bride. 
In joy we knelt around her ; but, ere a year went by, 
The demon, Sickness, found her — -she sought her bed 

to die. 
When Spring's night stars were paling, our ululu* was 

loud, 
With woman's bitter wailing, we wound her in her 

shroud. - 
She left a child behind her — I reared him on my knee ; 
Alas ! if man were kinder he need not beg with me. 

Over the mighty mountain, and by the lone sea shore. 
By ice-bound stream and fountain we'll wander ever- 
more ; 
To us, like lamb that ranges, along a bleak hill side, 
From all the season's changes a shelter is denied. 
I will not wish disaster to him who did me wrong, 
I leave him to a Master that's merciful as strong ; 
And when the dawn is breaking upon the land and sea, 
I'll say, with bosom aching, " Farewell, old home, to 
thee," 

* Ululu — burst of grief. 



202 



LOVE'S REPLIES. 



" How wears the day with me. 

How wears the day, 
When friends have taken thee 
Far, far away ?" 

Darkly and drearily, 
Slowly and wearily, 
Light from my pathway gone, 
Sweet joy and pleasure flown, 
One sweet hope left alone, 
So wears the day. 

u What whispers hope to me, 

What does hope say, 
When that I think on thee — 
Far, far away !" 

Low-voiced, but cheerily, 
Grladly and merrily, 
Hope says she'll come again, 
Cheering thy bosom's pain, 
Banish thy sorrow vain — - 
This does hope say* 



love's replies, 203 



cc What will jour welcome be. 

When you have conie, 
With the old smile for me, 
Back to your home ?" 
Wildly, imploringly, 
Closely, adoringly, 
Clasped to my happy breast. 
By my fond love caress'd, 
Pride of the beauteous West ! 
I'll welcome thee, 



204 



LET ME BE. 



Let me be, I'm tired and weary, 

Overburthen'd much with care ; 
Dark my Future looks and dreary, 

Not a single star shines there ; 
Days of Childhood, fast you faded, 

Days of Youth, ye faster flee, 
Days of Manhood, sorrow shaded, 

Pass more slowly — let me be. 

Let me be, no common sorrow 

Wounds my heart and weighs me down, 
Each day brings a sadder morrow, 

Bids me wear a thornier crown ; 
Dark Despair sings in the distance, 

Daily, nightly, unto me ; 
Ah ! I'm weary of existence, 

Very weary — let me be. 

LBt me be, sweet ; do not wound me 
With thy words of Hope and Love, 

Denser shadows loom around me, 
Darker grow the skies above ; 



LET ME BE. 205 

Flies the shuttle, Fate is weaving, 

And the sable web's for me, 
Welcome aught that gives the grieving 

Rest unbroken — let me be. 

Let me be, my heart is breaking 

With intensity of wo. 
All the words of love you're speaking 

Bid my tears the faster flow, — - 
I have drained Life's bitter chalice, 

On its dark and stormy sea — 
Launched my bark and fortune, Alice, 

But to perish — let me be. 

Let me be, or change the theme, love, 

Speak of all my summer friends, 
Falser than to ice the beam, love, 

Winter sun a moment lends ; 
In the horn 1 of danger flying, 

Ever, as we saw them flee, 
One by one they've left me sighing, 

Sing of them, or let me be. 

Let me be, Life's sands are falling, 

What is life that I should keep ? 
And I hear my Maker calling 

Often when you think I sleep ; 



206 CLOSE AGAIN TO MY SIDE, 

It is well, love, with the spirit, 
G-od will guard it peril-free. 

But the thing of little merit 

Earth gets back, love — let me be. 



CLOSE AGAIN TO MY SIDE 



Close again to my side, 
Close to my heart ! 

Cling my heart's joy and pride- 
No more we part. 

Oh ! what a happy time 
We shall have now, 

Love, in his golden prime, 
Decking each brow ; 

Sorrow and care, good bye* ! 
No more ye come, 

With your sad minstrelsy, 
Into our home. 



CLOSE AGAIN TO MY SIDE. 207 

Close again to my side, 
Close to my heart ! 

Cling my heart's joy and pride- 
No more we part. 

G-ems in thy raven hair 

Brightly shall shine ; 
Rings 'round thy fingers fair 

Shall cling and twine ; 
Songs, full of happy love, 

For thee I'll sing ; 
Flow'rs, from the shady grove. 

To thee I'll bring. 
Time shall pass fleet away, 

In joy and mirth, 
Making, like sunny May, 

Eden of earth. 
Close again to my side^ 

Close to my heart ! 
Cling my heart's joy and pride- 
No more we part. 



208 



LOVE'S GOOD-BYE, 



If you send me back my letters 

With the locket and the ring, 
You'll be sure to break the fetters 

That have bound us, ere the Spring ; 
'Tis high time our little olden — 

Courting follies should be done, 
Though they looked so sweet and golden 

When their race had just begun ; 
You may date my love's declension 

And its setting so in gloom, 
From the hour thy vain pretension 

Bid thee don another's plume, 
You will feel the rod of iron 

Of the critic, rest secure, 
Though you blend the gloom of Byron 

With the summer grace of Moore ; 
Startling fact, to me a new one 

For I lately snatched n look 



love's good-bye. 209 

At the dark, sad parts of Juan 

And the bright of Lalla Rookh ; 
All your verses move in fetters, 

Harper spare the golden string, 
And be sure return the letters 

With the locket and the ring. 

To be plain, my next of kin do 

Very wisely think you poor, 
And they say Love scales the window 

Just as want throws wide the door ; 
Yes, they think your freehold scanty, 

For, in spite of poetry, 
Cruel prose will still read " shanty' 5 

'Stead of " cottage by the sea ;" 
" Heart and Lute" though mingled sweetly, 

When assay'd by " means, and ways" 
Would be followed much too fleetly, 

By " the light of other days ;" 
And " when other lips" assail one 

With the spell of " marble halls," 
You will own it is a tale one 

Seldom hears but it enthralls. 
So " we'll meet no more by moonlight," 

As another seeks my side 
Unto whom in garish noonlight 

I will soon be link'd as Bride ; 



210 RESPONSES. 

So away with olden fetters, 

Never more 'round us they'll cling, 

And be sure send back my letters 
With the locket and the ring. 



RESPONSES 



When with fond love I roam 
Far from my joyless home, 
And to thy presence come 

Praying thee to bless ; 
Raptured at sight of thee, 
Praying thee to pity me, 
Oh ! let thine answer be — 

" Yes" my love, " Yes.' 

When I am far away 
From thine eye's winning ray, 
Heed not what others say 
Softly and low ; 



RESPONSES. 211 

Let your heart never rove 
From its own cherish'd love, 
Firm let your answer prove — 

"No" my love, "No." 

When that I come again 
Seeking relief from pain, 
Let me not ask in vain 

Kiss and caress, 
But with compliance sweet, 
When I kneel at thy feet, 
Let thy sweet tongue repeat — 

" Yes" my love, " Yes." 

When thy proud kinsmen, wroth, 
Ask thee to break thy troth 
False to thy love and oath, 

Working my wo ; 
By all you love and prize, 
On the earth, in the skies, 
Loud let your answer rise — 

"No" my love, "No." 



212 



SONG-, 



Thou art coming in the Spring-time, 

Thou art coming in the Spring, 
And my heart is light and joyful 

As a young bird on the wing ; 
What a bliss 'twill be to see thee, 

And to clasp thee to my breast, 
My own bright-eye 'd Yankee girl, 

Beauteous Peri of the West ; 
Now my heart with joy is bounding, 

Hark ! I hear it sweetly sing — 
" She is coming in the Spring-time, 

She'll be with me in the Spring." 

Thou art coming in the Spring-time, 

I shall gaze into those eyes, 
I shall speak my fond words to thee, 

I shall hear thy soft replies ; 
Thou shalt tell me in what pleasures, 

Have the moments with you flown, 
And I'll tell thee all the sorrows, 

That my loving heart has known. 



-MEANS TO AN END. 21-3 



Now good-bye to care and trouble, 
I am prouder than a king — 

Thou art coming in the Spring-time 
You'll be with me in the Spring. 



MEANS TO AN END. 

Cling to your friend when you prove his devotion, 

Breast the false world with him by your side, 
Firm as a rock that repels the rude ocean 

Dashing against it in angry pride. 
Though danger and death should around him hover, 

Still be thou prompt to shield and defend, 
Till each rude tempest that threatens is over, 

Meet it like true man ; cling to your friend. 

Toil for thy land with unceasing endeavor, 
Put forth thy powers of muscle and mind ; 

Strike, while a fetter is left you to sever — 
Strike, while a tyrant is left to bind. 



214 MEANS TO AN END, 

Check not thy spirit proud panting for glory, 

Free be the stroke of your heart and your hand ; 

On through the ranks of the plunderer hoary, 
Strike for your freedom, strike for your land. 

Give to the poor ; o'er the wild earth they wander, 

Toiling and working, never at rest ; 
Better to give, than in riot to squander 

That that would brighten an aching breast. 
Think on the sickness and hunger assailing 

Each mud-built hut on the cold, bleak moor : 
Think on each squalid child bitterly wailing — 

Think on your comforts — give to the poor. 

Think on thy God in all seasons and places, 

Fondly adoring, bend thou the knee ; 
Shun every vice, every sin that debases, 

Happy and light let thy conscience be. 
Let thy soul take, without grief or repining, 

Each stroke He deals with His chastening rod ; 
Soon to the mourning one bright hope comes shining, 

Be he but patient — think on thy God. 



215 



AMEEICAN WAR SONG, 

a. d. 1776, 

i. 

Brothers, hurra ! shout to the skies, 

King-hating Washington bids you arise,— 

Fitted is he leader to be 

Of thousands who muster their land to free ; 

Then for the right, rise in your might, 

Rise, with a purpose awful and high, 

March to the goal where the true soul 

Seeks for his foeman with kindling eye ; 

On then, arrayed, wield ye the blade, 

Let the deep debt of our vengeance be paid. 

On to the plain, freedom to gain, 

Snap the strong links of the tyrant's chain. 

Sabre and gun, sabre and gun, 
They are the tools by which glory is won ; 
Talk till we're hoarse of moral force, 
Freedom has ever a gallanter source, 
Hope to the slave when gun and glaive 
In his strong hands for country appear, 



216 AMERICAN WAR SONG. 

Keen be his blow when the fierce foe 
Gather to turn him in his career. 
No thought of flight, but for the right, 
Dealing out death with a giant's might. 
So should man stand for fatherland, 
Hope in his bosom, and edge on his brand. 



Haste and prepare, haste and prepare, 
Wisely to counsel and boldly to dare ; 
Let the babe cry, let the wife sigh, 
Brave men will gather, to do or to die. 
Come hearts of flame, who for a name 
Have pined and sighed for many a day. 
Honors I trow, shall deck his brow, 
Who fights in the van of our proud array. 
Hearts of the bold need not be told 
How to strike home when the flag is unrolled, 
Fierce as the gale, not a cheek pale, 
When the hour comes never falter or quail. 

IV. 

Brothers combine, brothers combine, 
Muster and gather, and form the line, — 
In bonds of love march ye and move, 
In the fight's centre your prowess to prove ; 



COME AWAY. 217 

Stir one and all, in hut and hall, 
Work and toil on without any delay — 
Hasten and woo good men and true, 
To swell our ranks on our try sting day : 
Take blade and gun, sabre and gun, 
They are the tools by which glory is won ; 
Talk till we're hoarse of moral force, 
Freedom has ever a gallanter source. 



"COMB AWAY, 

MARION'S WAR SONG. 
I. 

We have wept for many years, 
But the star of Hope appears 
All the brighter for past tears. 

Come away ! 
To the trusting spirits ken 
Freedom's soul will rise again, 
Oh ! awake if ye be men, 

Come away. 



220 COME AWAY. 



VII. 



Oh ! the Chiefs are stout and brave, 
True as ever led the slave, 
Unto Freedom or the grave, 

Come away ! 
Wheresoever the bravest fight 
Be it ours to press and smite, 
With a vengeance -wakened might, 

Come away. 



VIII. 



Ha ! the banners wave in air, 
And the mailed ranks prepare, 
With a glitter and a glare, 

Come away ! 
To the onset one and all, 
Down the giant Wrong shall fall 
With the earth's contempt for pall, 

Come away. 



tx. 



Hark, the War-trump ! now they close 
With their fierce and deadly foes, 
Fast the tide of battle flows, 

Come away ! 



221 



With a patriot shout of glee, 
Forward all and charge with me 
Unto Death or Victory ! 

Come away. 



NEW YEAR'S CHANT. 

a. d. 1776. 



To the work merrily, lightly and cheerily, 
From your long slumber boys rise one and all 

Youthful and beautiful, constant and dutiful, 
Gird on your armor to conquer or fall. 



Now may the millions see hope in its brilliancy, 
Arching the future with glory and light, 

Courage and bravery, down with all slavery, 
Vengeance with thunder tone calls you to smite. 



222 



Rise for the humanly, tender and womanly — 
Seraph shapes cheering your pathway of strife, 

Battling victoriously, stoutly and gloriously, 
Great shall your guerdon be, Freedom for life. 



IV. 

Come as the valiant come, in files battalion'd come 
Serried and orderly march ye and tread, 

Freedom is harvested but by the warvested, 
Wake ye, awaken, or be as the dead. 



v. • 

Days past the numbering have we been slumbering, 
Goaded and scourged by our proud rulers still, 

Proffering slavishly, meanly and knavishly, 
Backs for the scourges they wielded at will. 



VI. 

Up then defiantly, trample the giant lie 

Tyrant tongues utter when calling you slaves ; 

Banded and numberless, Hopeful and cumberless, 
Rise in your manhood men, prove ye are Braves. 



223 



Waning and wandering, doubtingly pondering 
Tyranny pallid sits in its proud hall, 

Reading the glittering, clear and embittering 
Hand writing Freedom has traced on the wall. 



Pomp, Pride and Vanity merged in Inanity, 
Sink in oblivion like wrecks of the Past, 

While Love and Charity, Freedom and Parity 
Man's only blessings are rulers at last. 



Boldly and readily, grandly and steadily, 

Up with the stripes and stars, free let them wave, 

Plant the staff sturdily, quickly, not tardily, 
Fence it around with the swords of the brave. 



If they come angrily, tell them how hungrily 
Ravens are scenting their prey on the wind, 

Down on them wrathfully, pay them right faithfully, 
Debts that are overdue time out of mind. 



224 new year's chant. 

XI. 

Onward then valiantly, ardently, gallantly, 

Break from your thraldom and dare to be free, 

Win for Futurity rights in their durity — 
Living while time and the world shall be. 

XII. 

Lynx-ey'd and warily, watch, lest ye drearily 

Fall from the station your strength shall have won, 

Swerve ye not, alter not, flinch ye not, falter not, 
Best not till meetly your labor is done. 

XIII. 

Working not frowardly, see ye move towardly, 
Firm let your footing be if you would climb 

Ere ye move speedily toiling on heedily, 
Striding to Greatness and Glory in time. 

XIV.- 

Then to work merrily, lightly and cheerily, 

From your long slumber, men, rise one and all, 

Youthful and beautiful, constant and dutiful, 
On with your fellow-men, conquer or fall. 



225 



THE DEATH OF TURGESIUS. 



AN HISTORICAL BALLAD, 



" How fair is young Melcha !" her handmaidens cry ; 
" How blooming her cheek and how brilliant her eye i 
How queenly she paces her father's proud hall, 
The wonder, the beauty, the loved of them all ! 
No maid in the dance can so gracefully move, 
Or sing half as sweetly as she does of love. 
Oh, dull is the minstrel, no wreaths shall he wear, 
Whose harp has no soft note for Melcha the Fair !' ? 

n. 

Her sire was Melachlin, the Ard High of IMeath, 
The bravest that ever drew blade from its sheath ; 
When Northmen, the Loclannochs,* came o'er the sea. 
His heart for the contest beat wildly and free. 

' Loclannochs — Anglice, the powerful at sea. 



226 THE DEATH OP TURGESIUS. 

Of Leinster the darling, of Leinster the pride, 
How fiercely in battle the war-axe he plied ; 
The swiftest to smite, and the slowest to spare, 
Was Melachlin, the father of Melcha the Fair, 

in. 

But vainly he strove, all his valor was vain, 
To shake the rude strength of Turgesius the Dane — - 
Who still made our bravest kneel low at his throne, 
With trembling to pay him the Arighid Srone.* 
He ravaged the Island with spear and with sword, 
He warred against learning, and scoffed at the Lord ! 
Till fate drove him on the base purpose to bare, 
Would tarnish your honor, young Melcha the Fair. 

IV. 

The wily Melachlin speaks fan- to the Dane, 
His hand tightly clutching the hilt of his skeyne— 
" Yes, Melcha the Fair, with her maidens fifteen, 
All tender and youthful, and fair to be seen, 
In secret I'll send to the place that you name, 
In secret, oh King ! lest my people cry ' shame !' 
Melachlin has said it, you'll meet with her there, 
The light of my homestead, my Melcha the Fair." 

• A tax imposed on the Irish by Turgesius ; the defaulters were pun- 
ished by the loss of their noses ; hence the name " Arighid Srone," nose- 

money. 



THE DEATH OF TURGESIUS. 227 



The proud Danish Lord to Rath Tar a is gone, 

Melachlin stands musing a moment alone ; 

Then loudly he summons the best of his band, — - 

" Ho, seek through the breadth and the length of my 

land 
For young men, fifteen, who can strike for the weak, 
All spotless of honor, and beardless of eheek ; 
Hearts that undaunted all dangers .will dare 
To shield from the tyrant my Melcha the Fair," 



They come at his bidding all radiant with youth, 
With souls all religion, and bosoms all truth ; 
'Neath white veils * of beauty the young men conceal 
Then bosoms well guarded nor of steel, 

Beneath their long garments the poniards they hide, 
"Whose blades ere the morrow blood-reel shall be dyed ; 
Then loud rang the voice of Melachlin in air, 
" How like you your maidens, my Meleka the Fair r" 



In Loch Var, an island was, green, and how fair ! 
Tureesius was feasting and reveiiino- there, 

h Long white veils, to use the language of the Morning Post, were 
"much worn" by ladies in the ninth century. — See ^PGeoghegan's His- 
tory and Moore's for the story. 



228 THE DEATH OF TURGESIUS. 

With nobles fifteen, in rich dresses arrayed, 
Awaiting young Melcha, the fair Irish maid : 
She comes in her beauty, she stands before all, 
Her brave guard around her, so slender and tall — 
Turgesius approached her, before his rude stare 
The soft eyes looked earthward, of Melcha the Fair. 

VIII. 

Then rose the false maidens, they rush on the foe, 
See, see from their poniards the blood-torrents flow ; 
With shoutings for Erin they strike down the horde, 
But spare for Melachlin, Turgesius, their Lord. 
They bind him, and in, with a shout from the heath, 
All fury, all fire, leaps Melachlin of Meath : 
His eyes like a tiger's with fierce beauty glare, 
So wroth was the father of Melcha the Fair. 



I saw them when homewards the warriors hied, 
Brush quick through the valley, and breast the hill- 
side ; 
I saw the proud pageant, I saw the fierce Dane, 
All madly, but vainly, writhe under his chain : 
They mocked him, they scoffed him, they gave him a 

grave, 
Unblest by a priest, under Loch Ainnin's wave ; 



THE DEATH OF TURGESIUS. 229 

Then bent they by thousands their fealty to swear 
To Melachlin the bold sire of Melcha the Fair. 



The student for learning in safety could roam. 

The peasant securely could rest in his home, 

The priest on the altar to Heaven could pray. 

The maiden through meadow and greenwood could 

stray ; 
The fields of their fathers once more were their own, 
The kine were all pastured, the good seed was sown ; 
Green Erin was joyful, she dreamed not of care, 
While ruled by the father of Melcha the Fair, 



230 



THE SONS OF ERIN SMILE. 



The sons of Erin smile — 

No coward-fear have they— 
For o'er each glitt'ring file 
Far flashes freedom's ray, 
With splendor illumining the grave 5 
And in its light divine. 
Their banded ranks combine , 
And steady is the line 

Of the brave. 

Death comes but once to all, 
Commission 'd from above, 
And his arrows, as they fall, 
Sweet shafts of mercy prove, 
When the brow is deep furrowed by despair- 
• To eyes that sadly weep, 
Long sunk in anguish deep — 
Death's but a peaceful sleep, 
Free from care. 



TAKE DOWN THE SWORD OF THY FATHER. 231 

On Glory's bright path now, 
The men of Erin tread- 
Resolve upon each brow- 
By Freedom's impulse led ; 
To meet their fate by field or by flood. 
Like hearts that long are cold, 
The shepherds of the fold, 
Who gave their isle of old, 

Their heart's blood, 



TAKE DOWN THE SWORD OF THY 
FATHER," 

Take down the sword of thy father. 

And strike for the land of your birth ; 
The laurels thy young hand may gather. 

Are the richest and rarest on earth. 
Their verdure and freshness undying, 

The rude breath of time may defy ; 
They bloom where a foul tyrant lying, 

Looks his last upon Grod's starry sky. 



232 TAKE DOWN THE SWORD OF THY FATHER. 

The good sword of Grrattan is gleaming. 

To wipe off the wrongs of past years ; 
And o'er the dark hill-side is streaming 

The flag of the bold volunteers. 
Then bared be thy blade for the foeman, 

The scabbard cast down on the heath ; 
And find like the eagle-eyed Eoman, 

In the breast of your foeman — a sheath. 

Then go ! strike for Erin and glory. 

Where trumpets ring loud on the ear ; 
To him who'd live honored in story, 

The path to renown is the bier. 
Beware how you yield to another 

Your post, though it lead to the grave ; 
Beware of the curse of thy mother, 

If men say " She suckled a slave." 



233 



FATHEELAND. 



Though cowards weep, though dastards keep 

Their limbs to chains united, 
Be ours the ban of God and man 

If Erin be not righted ; 
To rise or fall, come one, come all, 

The green flag proudly rearing, 
And fetter free, as wind and sea, 
We'll make our darling Erin ! 
So pass the wine, bold comrades mine, 

And drink with jubilation, 
Right gallantly, with three times three, 
Our Fatherland, a Nation, 

A haughty bold young Nation, 
Come lay in mine 
That hand of thine 
And drink our land a Nation. 

Pass, pass the wine, bold friends of mine, 
Give chains to slaves who fear them 



234 FATHERLAND. 

But spear and glaive are for the brave 

Who hotly pant to wear them ; 
Though tyrants smile a little while, 
And roughshod trample o'er us, 
We'll change our song of grief ere long 

For Freedom's thrilling chorus, 
So, young and old, true hearts and bold, 

Come drink with acclamation, 
Our crownless Queen, of angel mien, 
Our Erin dear, a Nation, 
A free aspiring Nation, 
Send round the wine, 
Fill mine, fill thine, 
And drink " our land a Nation." 

Hurra, hurra for that great day, 

When gloriously go forth, man, 
The long opprest of East and West, 

With Southern and with Northman, 
Pale Tyranny would swoon to see 

Their long and proud array, boys, 
A despot's hordes, and hireling swords, 

Were little worth that day, boys, 
By all we prize, in earth and skies, 

By all that wins salvation, 
As God designed, Time out of mind, 

She shall be yet a Nation, 



FATHERLAND. 235 

A young and beauteous Nation, 

So ? pass the wine, 

Fill thine, fill mine, 
And drink " our land a Nation.'' 

On God rely, when trial's nigh, 

By breasting, overcome it, 
No stealthy pace at dangers, base 

If ye would cross its summit ; 
The downhill, then, is Freedom, men, 

The work grows hourly lighter ; 
While Hope's young ray, so dim to-day, 

Each morrow's toil makes brighter, 
Be wise in time, delay is crime, 

It needs no inspiration 
In man to tell, what all know well — 
'Tis Union makes a Nation, 

A brave unshackled Nation, 
So drink to-night, 
In Hell's despite 
" Our Fatherland a Nation." 



236 



A REQUEST 



TO CHARLES GAVAN DUFFY. 



" A boon, my Sovereign, for my service done !" 

—Richard the Third ; Act 2 ; Scene 1st. 

" One of the most extraordinary customs of chivalry, and also one ol 
the most interesting, was the adoption of a brother in arms : it v often 
a bond for life, uniting interests and feelings, and dividing d ; and 

successes."—" James's History of Chivalry," page 36. 



With patriot fire I have swept the lyre 

By the shore of the wind-lash 'd wave, 
That the slave may leap from his slumber deep, 

To strike with the bold and brave ; 
I have traced for men, with a fearless pen, 

The spells that can break a chain — 
Though the foemen stand as thick on the land 

As stalks of the bearded grain. 
From the mountain high, 'neath the bright blue sky, 

I have look'd over Nature fair, 
'Till the flow'rs of Thought, that I wildly sought, 

Came wooing my Fcincy there. 



A REQUEST. 237 

With an impulse strong, that would take no wrong, 

In Fancy I've fought the fight, 
Where the foe went down, 'neath the fearful frown, 
And the avalanche power of Right ; 
Then grant me a boon 
Ere the sun of June 

Shall shine, that I crave of thee — 
Dub, dub me a Knight 
Of the Shamrock bright, 
A Knight of your company. 



ii. 

! deep was my grief when the favorite chief* 
Of Eire was torn away— 

Alas ! that the grave should close o'er the brave 

Ere the millions' trysting day. 
Were he now alive, not a bolt or gyve 

Could force from him one slave moan — 
His limbs they could bind, but his deathless mind 

Its lightening would send through stone. 

1 whilom sung, with a fait 'ring tongue, 

A dirge for " Tomas, Aroon," 
May his pure soul rest, with the Just and Blest 
'Neath the sky of the endless Noon. 

* Davis. 



238 A LAMENT FOR THOMAS DAVIS. 

Now, now, by the ties that we dearly prize, 

By our love for our own Green Isle, 
By the debt we owe to the hated foe 
That we'll pay in a little while, 
Grant me the boon 
Ere the sun of June 

Shall shine, that I crave of thee- 
Dub, dub me a Knight 
Of the Shamrock bright, 
A Knight of your company. 



A LAMENT FOR THOMAS DAVIS 

Bravest among the brave, 

Tomas, Aroon.* 

Hope of the stricken slave, 

Tomas, Aroon, 

Cold art thou now as clay, 

Thy soul has fled away — 

Wo is me for the day ! 

Tomas, Aroon, 

* Thomas, darling. 



A LAMENT FOR THOMAS DAVIS. 239 

Loud are the wailing cries, 

Tomas, Aroon, 
Heavy are Erin's sighs, 

Tomas, Aroon, 
Thine was the spirit bright, 
Cheering all with its light — 
Now we have gloom and night — 

Tomas, Aroon, 



In doubt and fear we tread, 

Tomas, Aroon, 

Yours was the guiding head, 

Tomas, Aroon, 

Foremost of all our band, 

You had for fatherland 

Prompt tongue and ready hand, 

Tomas, Aroon, 

If I had titles old, 

Tomas, Aroon, 
If I had mines of gold, 

Tomas, Aroon, 
I would cast all aside, 
Oh ! with what joyful pride ! 
But to die as you died, 

Tomas, Aroon. 



240 A LAMENT FOR THOMAS DAVIS. 

Why should we wail and weep ? 

Tomas, Aroon. 
O'er the earth where you sleep, 

Tomas, Aroon. 
Thy soul would gladder be 
From Heaven high to see, 
How we made Erin free, 

Tomas, Aroon. 

Early and late we'll strive, 

Tomas, Aroon. 
So did you, when alive, 

Tomas, Aroon. 
So shall the truth be shewn, 
So shall the love be known, 
Kindled by you, our own, 

Tomas, Aroon. 



241 



"ERIN. 51 



How fair the land of Erin, 
Eternal sunshine wearing- 
How fitted she 
To fire the free, 
And waken the despairing. 



How sweet for her to labor. 
To sound of fife and tabor. 

And rive the chain 

That long hath lain 
Upon her, with the sabre, 

in. 

"We have the scrolls of freedom, 
And he who wills may read 'em — ■ 

And sword or pike, 

To spare or strike, 
We hold for all who need 'em. 



242 ERIN. 



IV. 



The supple slave may bend, boy, 
And call the Saxon, friend, boy ; 

But for the right, 

In Hell's despite, 
The brave to glory wend, boy. 



Our flag to Heaven flying, 

With bitter hate undying, 

The foeman's path 

We'll cross in wrath, 

His vassal hordes defying. 

VI. 

Our Past is one of shame, boy, 
So character in flame, boy, 

" The coming time," 

When Erin's clime 
Shall yield to none in fame, boy. 

VII. 

'Mid winds and waves in motion, 
She stands erect in ocean, 

A Crownless Queen 

Of angel mien, 
To win our hearts' devotion. 



243 



Her beauteous breast is swelling 
With anguish past the telling, 
And weary years 
Have seen the tears 
From out her sweet eyes welling. 

IX. 

Be ours the task to cheer her, 
By keeping vigil near her — 

Her ills to cure, 

What spells so sure 
As shining sword and spear are. 



How dear the land of Erin ! 
Eternal sunshine wearing — 

How fitted she 

To fire the free", 
And waken the despairing, 



244 

FRATERNIZE, AN IRISH EXHORTATION. 

[written early in 1848.] 

Forward, forward, men of Munster ! 

Burnish rifle, sharpen pike — 
Lightning swift the hour is coming 

When, like freemen, ye shall strike ; 
Put your trust in one another, 

'Spite of halters, racks, and spies ! 
Know your right and left hand — comrades, 

Men of Munster — Fraternize ! 

ii. 
Forward, forward, men of Leinster, 

Now or never forward all, 
With the aids that Freedom loveth — 

Push of pike, and crack of ball ; 
Thrones and dominations crumble, 

Banded slaves by union rise — 
Singly ye are weak as water — 

Men of Leinster — Fraternize ! 

in. 

Forward, forward, men of Connaught, 
Waken drum and piercing fife, 



FRATERNIZE, AN IRISH EXHORTATION. 245 

Whoso panteth after freedom, 

Now must wade through blood and strife ; 
Erin calls you ! vengeance summons, 

Hear you not their thrilling cries ? 
Curs'd be he who faints or falters ! 

Men of Connauo'ht — Fraternize ! 



Forward, forward, men of Ulster, 

Think on Owen, think on Hugh ! 
Let the glorious past inspire you, 

Up together, die or do ! 
For the sake of those who love you, 

For the sake of those you prize, 
For the weal of holy Ireland — 

Men of Ulster — Fraternize ! 



Men of Ireland, wrong o'erladen, 

Famine-scourged, and law opprest, 
March ye forth in love battalion'd, 

North and South, and East and West- 
Brother stand beside your brother ; 

Where's the might beneath the skies 
That can check eight million felons ? 

Men of Ireland — Fraternize ! 



246 



THOMAS DAVIS. 



A LAMENT. 

The first in order of time, if not in originality, of the latter Irish Poets, 
is Thomas Davis. He tried his hand at verse in 1842, and death stayed 
his labors forever in 1S45. His writings are the hurried labors of three 
busy years. Nationality was his inspiration, and under that ennobling 
influence, he felt neither party nor province, while he sung. His native 
Munster claims his love songs, the North his war songs and elegies — and 
all Ireland his care and reverence. — "Evenings with the Irish Poets,*' 
T. D. Mc Gee. 



With love that can die not, 
With truth that can fly not, 
For Davis departed ; 
The loving, the truthful, 

The strong, patient toiler, 
The radiant and youthful 
Cut down by the spoiler, 
I sorrow lone-hearted. 



He battled for Erin, 
When, weak and despairing, 

She knelt to the foenian ; 



THOMAS DAVIS. 247 

When millions were pining 

For chieftains to lead 'em, 
When fair Hope, declining, 

Saw glory and freedom 

Were worshipped by no man. 



With spells that enthraiPd us, 
Together he call'd us, 

As one man united ; 
In songs of the sweetest 
Our Island's sad story, 
In language the meetest 
He sung, 'till each hoary- 

Brow'd despot grew 'frighted. 

IV. 

His soul, like the far light 
Of sunlight or star-light, 

Illumin'd his sireland ; 
In tones of defiance, 

The loudest and boldest, 
He preach'd self-reliance, 
'Till hearts that beat coldest 

Were fire -fraught for Ireland. 



248 THOMAS DAVIS. 



In trial and danger, 



No braggart, no ranger, 

But bold and far-seeing ; 
" Our guide and our beacon," 

The real and earnest, 
He clung to, unshaken, 
With all of the sternest 

Deep zeal of his being. 

VI. 

Forever in motion, 
He toil'cl with devotion 

To lift the green sunward ; 
With words high and holy 
In gloom and in trouble, 
The weak and the lowly, 
The high and the noble, 
His spirit led onward, 

VII. 

But ah ! the fierce fever 
That spares the loved never, 

Came to him and found him, 



THOMAS DAVIS. 249 

When toil superhuman, 

And resting not ever, 
Left him weak as woman, 

For dread death to sever 

The earth links that hound him, 



Our fiery-soul'd teacher, 
Our Heaven-sent preacher 

Low laid in the grave is ; 
Tho' fondly we loved him, 

Tho' dearly we cherish'd, 
When trial had proved him, 
Our beautiful perish'd — 
Our lion-heart — Davis. 

IX. 

With chiefs and with sages* 
The lights of past ages, 

The soul of the brave is, 
Joy, joy to the gifted, 

Thro' death's gloomy portal 
To Heaven uplifted, 

Eternal, immortal, 
Joy, joy to thee, Davis ■ 



250 THOMAS DAVIS. 

And when for the green land- 
No cold land, no mean land — ■ 
Uplifted the glaive is ! 
The spell word to cheer us, 

To fire us and guide us, 
With foes 'round and near us, 
Whatever betide us. 

Shall be Thomas Davis ! 

XI. 

And oh ! should we see, men, 
Our Island as free, men, 

As wind or as wave is ; 
With hearts hot and glowing 

This toast shall be given, 
In wine-cups o'erflowing, 
And up raised to Heaven — 

" Our sainted one, Davis !" 



■m 



BALLADS OF THE PALE, 



NO I.— ART MAC MURROGK S WAR-SONG. 



Arise for the fight ! oh ! ye fearless and free ! 
Bold Tanists, and Princes of fair Irishrie ! 
Out, out from the cover the dark mountain yields, 
With glittering lances and loud-ringing shields, 
Riagh* Richard, in anger, conies over the waves. 
To rifle our homesteads, and fetter our braves ; 
Then rise — lest you slumber forever in chains — > 
Arise, while a spark of that spirit remains 
That Brian, the Lord of Kincora, put forth 
'Gainst Sitric and Brodar, the chiefs of the North ! 
Oh ! think on the wrongs that, some short years ago, 
We suffer'd from Strongbow and Raymond le-Gros ; 
And, thirsting for vengeance, and fierce as the gale, 
Crush down, and forever, the Lords of the Pale.f 

* R-iagh — King. f See the note? to No. 2, 



252 BALLADS OF THE PALE. 

II. 

Oil ! heard ye the words of Mac Murrogh the bold ?— 

" I bend to no tyrant, I thirst not for gold : 

I stoop not to argue with monarch or lord, 

I stand for my Sir eland, my hand on my sword ; 

The craven with gifts to the despot may kneel, 

Mac Murrough gives nought to his foeman but steel ; 

Let traitors swear fealty, let women forgive, 

Mac Murrogh will ne'er bid an enemy live." 

Then gather around him — the true and the tried, 

From forest, from valley, and shaggy hill-side — 

O'er the deep river, and o'er the morass 

To the muster with courage unshrinking pass — 

Death to the false one, whose spirit would quail 

To crush, and forever, the Lords of the Pale. 



Our hostings are many, our chieftains are brave, 
On, on to the muster with spear and with glaive — 
O'Brin brings his thousands from rous'd Ballincor, 
'Nolan, of Forth, sighs, and shouts for the war, 
Mac David, of Eiavach, O'Tuathal, of Imayle, 
The war gods of Erin, and plagues of the Pale ; 
The Calvach, the wisest at council or board, 
Have taken the buckler, the spear, and the sword. 
Our ravens want food, and their maws shall be fed, 
Clan Saxon, from heaps of your uncoffin'd dead , 



BALLADS OF THE PALE. 253 

The steel of Mac Murrogh has potence divine 

To cleave the fierce foe from the crown to the chine, 

As buffets the waves of the ocean, a rock 

With heart of calm granite, so bides he war's shock ; 

Oh ! the last to retire, and the first to assail, 

Is Mac Murrogh, the lion, and scourge of the Pale, 

IV. 

Away with the rich grain, away with the kine ! 

The foenian shall starve while off plenty we dine ; 

They know not the passes through bog and through fen, 

They know not the wild woods like mountaineer men ; 

Around them we'll hover — the keen Irish dart, 

With aim never erring, shall fly to the heart. 

Mac Murrogh, the fearless — our leader and guide, 

Shall burn to ashes the halls of their pride, 

And Norman and Saxon, beset by their fears, 

With " Black Kent" shall buy off our swords and our 

spears. 
Hurra ! hark the note of the war-trumpet loud, 
That summons the lowly to humble the proud : 
Then loud let our war-cry be heard on the gale— 
Joy, joy to green Erin ! wo, wo, to the Pale. 



254 



BALLADS OF THE PALE. 

NO. II. LIFE AND DEATH OF ART MAC MURROGH. 

When Dynasts and Tanists* arrayed on the heather 
For Erin and vengeance, took counsel together, 
Whose foot than the red-deer's was freer and lighter ? 
Whose eye than the eagle's was keener and brighter ? 
Whose voice than the peal of the thunder was louder ? 
Whose bearing than that of a monarch's was prouder ? 
Whose plume was the haughtiest, air -borne, flying ? 
Whose sword flashed the brightest o'er dead and o'er 

dying ? 
Though Saxons in herds should his person environ, 
Whose grasp on his war-horse was rigid as iron ? 
Whose heart beat the lightest in trial and danger ? 
Whose hate was the blackest for Saxon and stranger ? 



Notes. — Richard, surnamed of Bordeaux, the son of the renowned 
Black Prince, sat on the throne of England after Edward III. He had 
been crowned in 1377 — the same year that Art Mac Murrogh had been 
elected to rule over Leinster. — [See Mc Gee's life of Art, pps. k 2Q. 30, 31, 
38, 57, &c. 

Dynasts and Tanists— Princes and Chiefs. 



BALLADS OF THE PALE, 255 

Oh ! whose but Mac Murrogh's the pride of his sire- 

land, 
The sword and the buckler, the War-Grod of Ireland, 
The Pale's-men and Saxon's like rabbits would burrow, 
In fastness and fortress, with fear of Mac Murrogh ! 



When Filea's* were chanting where red wine was 

flowing — * 
When eyes sparkled brightly on cheeks hotly glowing — - 
Whom first did they laud, and to whom first give 

honor ? — ■ 
The " Calvach," O'Nokn, O'Brin, or O'Connor ?f 
Oh ! who but Mac Murrogh, the chieftain so glorious. 
O'er Norman and Saxon, for ever victorious I 
At the gates of the Pale, on the banks of King's Elver, 
Of Glory and Fame he made handmaids for ever, 
When Ormond fled fast to the PaleJ for a haven, 
Leaving Mortimer's corpse to the wolf and the raven ; 
The castles of Wexford he gave to the burning 
Their ramparts and bulwarks in dust overturning ; 
At Athcroe — the ford of the blood-tarnished water- 
Lord Thomas of England got pale for the slaughter ; 

* Fileas — Native Bards.— To be pronounced Fi-le's. 

f Chiefs and Princes who flourished then. 

| The Pale- -A portion of Ireland garrisoned by the English. 



256 BALLADS OF THE PALE. 

By Butler and Ferrers the tale was out-spoken 
Of all that Art did when his vengeance was woken. 
The swords of the foemen he heaped up to Heaven, 
Their owners lying near them in thousands unshriven ; 
E'en Richard of England confessed him his master, 
When blow followed blow, and disaster, disaster. 
From forest and fastness, from hill-top and valley, 
How bravely he'd dash ! — oh, how wildly he'd sally, 
Till Saxon blood flowed like a stream from the 

fountain, 
Then hie him again to his haunts in the mountain. 
Oh ! many the hearts, neither fickle or hollow, 
With joy e'en to death, that loved leader to follow, 
Would leave kine to starve, and untilled leave the 

furrow 
When raised was your proud flag, oh ! dauntless 

Mac Murrogh. 

As strong as an oak, and as straight as a cedar, 
By Birth -right a Monarch, by Nature a Leader ; 
On self and his own gallant hostings reliant, 
Of Richard and all his mailed braggarts defiant ; 
Of large heart and loving, the foremost to rally 
Around him the septs of the mountain and valley ; 
O'Brin and Mac David, O'Tuathal* and O'Connor, 
All loved of Green Erin, all spotless of honor, 

» O'Tuathal— to be pronounced as though written, — O'Toole. 



BALLADS OF THE PALE. 257 

Through gloom and through danger would follow and 

find him, 
And peal in the fierce fight their war-cries behind him, 
Ah ! wo for the day, when the hand of Death* 

found him, 
With his Maidens and File as and Kerns around him, 
With weeping and wailing in sad Ross Mac Bruin, 
The Bards and the Brehonst foretold the land's ruin ; 
The folds of the flag of false Ormond were given 
With joy to the free air and breezes of Heaven ; 
The heart of the Galvach with sorrow was laden ; 
O'Tuathal of Iinayle wept aloud like a maiden ; 
'Nolan, O'Brin, and Mac David in sorrow 
Looked down on their nestings and thought on the 

morrow ; 
The sable-cowled Friars the Death Mass were singing ; 
The Maidens in anguish their white hands were 

wringing • 
By river, by lake, in each valley and highland, 
The Death Keen was raised for the pride of the Island. 
The kine roamed at large and unfilled lay the furrow, 
When Death struck the haughty and mighty Mac 

Mufroffh. 



* It was more than suspected that Art was poisoned by an English 
emissary. 

f Brehons — judges, or wise men. to whose experience all matters were 
transmitted, whether of policy or religion. 



258 



A SONG FOR A DOWN-TKODDEN LAND. 

Air — " Some love to roa^n o'er the dark sea-foam." 

Fill high to-night, in our halls of light, 

The toast on our lips shall be 
" The sinewy hand, the glittering brand, 

Our homes and our altars free." 

Ho ! ho ! ho ! etc. 

Though the coward pale, like a girl may wail, 

And sleep in his chains for years, 
The sound of our mirth shall pass over earth 

With balm for a nation's tears. 

Ho ! ho ! he ! etc. 

A curse for the cold, a cup for the bold, 

A smile for the girls we love ; 
And for him who'd bleed, in his country's need, 

A home in the sides above. 

Ho ! ho ! ho ! etc. 



A SONG FOR A DOWN-TRODDEN LAND. 259 

We have asked the page of a nobler age 

For a hope secure and bright, 
And the spell it gave to the stricken slave 

Was in one strong word — u Unite." 

Ho ! ho ! ho ! etc. 

Though the wind howl free o'er a single tree 

Till it bends beneath its frown — 
For many a day it will howl away 

Ere a forest be stricken down. 

Ho !- ho ! ho ! etc. 

By the martyred dead, who for Freedom bled, 

By all that man deems divine, 
Our patriot band, for our own dear land, 

Like brothers shall all combine. 

Ho ! ho ! ho ! etc. 

Then fill to-night, in our halls of light, 

The toast on our lips shall be — 
" The sinewy hand, the glittering brand, 

Our homes and our altars free." 

Ho ! ho ! ho ! etc. 



260 



WHILE THE HAUGHTY RED FLAG FLIETH. 



While the haughty Red flag flieth, 
In the dust the Green low lieth, 
And down-trodden Erin sigheth, — 

Sighs and sings " Twill thus be ever, 
" Bound in chains that will not sever, 
" Disenthraled I'll waken never ; 

" I but weep my star's declension, 
While my sons' unblest dissension 
Lends my chains a tighter tension. 



" While around me thickly lying, 
Like the night-wind sadly sighing, 
Are the famine-stricken, dying, 



" Thick as leaves in Autumn shaken 
From the trees, when winds awaken, 
Mass'd in earth lie my forsaken 



WHILE THE HAUGHTY RED FLAG FLIETH. 261 

" Short the trial, sad the story, — 
Sunbright youth in all its glory 
Blent in Earth with Age the hoary, 

" While the cloud grows hourly deeper, 
While thy wail grows louder, weeper, 
Works the faster, Death the reaper. 

" Caoifiers* raise the chant funereal, 
Pallid bearers, haste and hurry all 
To a dark and dismal burial. 

" Hither crow, and hither raven, 
Hither dog, scant earth's no haven 
For the corse's rotting leaven. 

" Where the graves, not graves of green, lie, 
Rat and slow-worm, biting keenly, 
Hold their feast of flesh obscenely. 

" Where no watcher wanders nightly, 
They are bold, and creeping lightly 
To their carnival unsightly, 

" Pastor, work, short time is given, 
Lest for one you fit for Heaven, 
Thousands may be left unshriven." 

* Or Keeners,— Weepers. 



262 WHILE THE HAUGHTY RED FLAG FLIETH. 

Over blighted hopes despairing, 
Sable robes of mourning wearing, 
So sings sadly outraged Erin. 

Oh ! be men, and gather near her, 
Closer, closer, raise and cheer her, 
None are fairer, none are dearer. 

She in story's truthful pages 
Styled for long and countless ages 
Queen of Bards and Saints and Sages — 

Fallen from her palmy station, 
Heiress but of desolation, 
Lifeless symbol of a nation ; 

By your loves and shrines and altars ! 
With the Faith that never falters, 
Spite of gaols and racks and halters, — 

Countless as the waves in number, 
Waken Freedom from its slumber, 
Let your chains the green earth cumber ; 

See the haughty Red flag flieth 
While green Erin sadly sigheth, 
That the Green in dust low lieth. 



NOTICES OF THE PRESS, 

OF MANY OF THE PIECES IN THIS COLLECTION, 



From, the Dublin Nation. 

11 This is a terrible picture," (a poem on Ireland,) " but 
only a picture, it will have no realization ; training has made 
an accomplished Poet of our young contributor." 

From, the Protective Union. 

The following remarkable poem, which we believe was 
originally published in the columns of our elegant cotem- 
porary, the Boston Museum, is a just tribute to a great man, 
from a poet, yet but little known in America, but whose 
powers of versification, and fertile fancy, will yet raise him to 
an exalted rank. The easy simplicity of Mulchinock, and his 
rhythmical exactitude, are unsurpassed by any of our mod- 
erns, except Longfellow and Poe. 

From the Irish American. 

A gifted young Irishman — William Pembroke Mulchinock 
— appears occasionally, we may say regularly, in the Poet's 
Corner of one of the very best literary weeklies in the 
country — the Boston Weekly Museum. Mr. M., can lay un- 
mistakeable claim to the ars divinior. 

From the Philadelphia Model Courier. 

Next week we shall endeavor to present our readers with a 
rich literary treat from the pen of Win. P. Mulchinock, a 
young Irish gentleman, who has won for himself a rich 
wreath of laurels in this, the land of his adoption. It is 
entitled, {i Ellen the Fair — a Ballad of the Affections." 

From the Home Journal. 

The Boston Museum may well be proud of its contributor, 
Mr. Wm. P. Mulchinock, whose last ballad, "Paul Flem- 
ming and Mary Ashburton," reminds us of the happiest efforts 
of the early " Troubadours," 



NOTICES OF THE PRESS. 



From the Literary American. 

We present this week another poem from the pen of our 
much esteemed friend, Mr. Mulchinock. Mr. M., was one of 
that gifted band collected by Duffy around the Dublin Nation. 
He has given us two sad chants on Ireland, one of which we 
present this day. Inspired by love of his doomed land, he 
wields a powerful pen when her sufferings are the theme. 

From the Kniclierbocker. 

"We are glad to learn that Wm. P. Mulchinock intends pub- 
lishing a complete edition of his poems. He is a young man 
of genius and fertile fancy. Next month we will present our 
readers with a striking poem from his pen, which we received 
at too late a period for insertion in the present number. 

From the Boston Museum. 

" Elsewhere will be found some excellent ' Stanzas for 
Music,' from the pen of Mulchinock of New York, a young- 
Irish Poet who has recently come to these shores ; they ex- 
hibit a fresh graceful sentiment, conveyed in great harmony 
of versification." 



A LIST OF PATRONS AND SUBSCRIBERS. 

Ralph Waldo Emerson, 1 ; Washington Irving, 1 ; Henry Wadsworth 
Longfellow, 1 ; William Cullen Bryant, 1 ; John G. Whittier, 1 j Horace 
Greely 3 ; Fitz Greene Halleck, 1 ; Rev. Henry Giles, 1 ; George P. 
Morris, 1 ; Evert Duyckinck, 1 ; Rev. Edwin H. Chapin, 1 ; T. S. 
Arthur, 1 ; Rev. Ralph Hoyt, 1 ; Lewis Gaylord Clarke, 1 ; Prosper M. 
Wetmore, I ; Freeman Hunt, 1 ; J. T. Headley, 1 ; Louis A. Godey, 1 , 
John R. Thompson, 1 ; Augustine Duganne, 1 ; Henry Mason, 1 ; John 
S. Adams, 1 ; P. Henchey, 1 ; S. M. Kindall, 1 ; Moses A. Dow, 1 ; Henry 
Fowler, 1 ; George P. Quackenbos. 1 ; V/illiam Dowe, 1 j Thomas 
D'Arcy McGee, 5 ; Mrs. Jane G. Swisshelm, 1 ; Messrs. Fowler & 
Wells, 1 ; John B. Dillon, 1 ; Richard ; Gorman, 1 ; William Henry 
Dunn, 1 ; Thomas M. xVewbould, 1 ; Isaac G Coffin, 1 ; J. U. S. Dey, 1. 



